Dateline: Barossa Valley, Tununda, AU

The Barossa Valley is a 1.5 hour car transfer from the airport in Adelaide. By private car around $200 AU. Driving a rental out of the car hire at the Adelaide airport would be cheaper and you would then have the use of the car while staying out in wine country, but Americans and Europeans will need a GPS and possibly a back seat driver to remind them to stay on the left hand side of the road. If you plan to tour around, or stay for some time, a car is a necessity though. We made due with rented bicycles and taxis.

Jacob’s Creek Winery is one of the largest, (in Australia) exporting world wide. They have a very large hotel, but from afar, it looks just like any big-name chain hotel surrounded by the requisite massive parking lot and mondo-sized tour busses.

The Jacob’s Creek Retreat is NOT affiliated with the Jacob’s Creek Winery but instead sits about 6 clicks from the affable little town of Tununda on property that is owned by the Moorooroo Winery. Moorooroo is a tiny boutique vintner that exports (almost) nowhere. Turns out that Jacob’s Creek (a slow moving, almost dry little creek) is an area landmark, hence the name can be utilized by any business owner who can reasonably claim a relationship to the creek itself. Up until several years ago the Moorooroo winery owner (and vintner), who originally and lovingly developed the entire property, ran both businesses, the hotel, what Aussies call the “accommodations”, and also the winery tasting room. They have since turned the operations of the accommodations over to a separate, but co-operative, owner.

In November, (summer time in AU) your intro to the retreat starts off a gravel road amidst vineyards heavy laden with emerald vines. (No discernible fruit yet.) The tasting room for Moorooroo is a delightful reproduction of a French country “cave” where a tasting of five selections can be had for only $5 and nothing at all if you purchase at least one bottle of wine. They are known for their Shiraz and for good reason. Even if you don’t stay on the property, (although I highly recommend that you do) you should pay a visit to Moorooroo and do a tasting. You will thank me.

A quick call from the cellar staff will summon Charles who is the proprietor now of the accommodations. Charles plays the butler in Hollywood’s latest period epic about the British upper class. He will deliver you to your room or suite and give you a quick tour of the grounds. Although the vintage of the buildings is deceptively 18th century French countryside, only one of them is authentic. The rest were constructed in the late 1990s. The remodel completely fooled me. Our suite, The Orlando, reminded me so much of a country house we rented in Sarlat in the Dordogne region of France, (maybe because of the genuine period pieces which furnish the suite), I felt a bit disoriented. (Is this Australia?)

The only thing modern about the lodgings would be the excellent plumbing and electrical. Everything in that realm works and works consistently and well, including the oversized corner Jacuzzi tub and large double plumbed shower heads. (The only thing a Frenchman will find missing in the bathroom is a bidet. Like Americans, and unlike the French, apparently Aussies run around in life with dirty coochies.) Each room boasts a completely silent LG air con unit, separately controlled. There are two “tellies” in the suite and a radio, (no dvd player), a small fridge, a cook top, a microwave and ample space to settle in and cook and enjoy a nice light supper or lunch. The period lamps offer lovely, romantic lighting and some overhead lights can be dimmed for the romantique effect.

A highlight is the king-sized bed, dressed in crisp white bed sheets and a lovely down duvet. (Extremely comfortable!) Morning brekky is served at a very civilized 9:00 a.m. – 10 a.m. and offers a fresh fruit platter, juice, a selection of cereals, good freshly baked bread, scrambled eggs, baked tomatoes, mushrooms, sausages and bacon.

Aside from the staff ministrations, which are superb, (no request is too great), a gorgeous, large, infinity swimming pool, spectacular grounds (think mini Versailles) and the tasting experience at Moorooroo, visitors will love that wifi is available in the lovely Pavillion (where brekky is served) and (at least in Orlando), an espresso machine with ample coffee gives access to coffee around the clock.

Jacob’s Creek Retreat gets my highest rating for both “accommodations” and a splendid intimate wine tasting. (You’ll be lucky if Rachel is pouring. She’s a gem and they don’t pay her enough whatever they are paying her.)

We rented bikes from the Barossa Bike Hire (see trip notes) and they were delivered and picked up at a reasonable rate. Not to sound like a snob, but the biking around the wine country is equivalent to California’s minor wine districts, Temecula in San Diego County and up in Santa Barbara, with a nice long bike path winding through vineyards and little towns for miles. It isn’t bike heaven like it is up Napa/Sonoma way, or in Everywhere, France. They are definitely coming along though, as they are in wine production. There’s a pretty big grocery store on the main drag of Tanunda but the town needs a gourmet deli and cheese shop badly. That said, the young ladies who work in the market will go out of their  way to equip you for a basic picnic.

In conclusion, if your singular goal in life is to visit all the great wine districts of the world, then, by all means, you MUST go to the Barossa Valley. Also, if life takes you somehow to Adelaide, go ahead, go out there for an extended weekend. On the other hand, if you are in search ONLY of the penultimate wine country experiences, and time or money are limited…eh…there are better. Just, imho. But, either way, if you do go, definitely bring me back a bottle of that Moorooroo Shiraz in your checked luggage. I’ll pay you back. I promise.

Dateline: Port Douglas

Now we’re talkin’! THIS is how you want to get picked up at the airport (in Cairns). A private shuttle up coast an hour and a half to the yachty little town of Port Douglas is just the ticket. The “sisters”, as we came to call them, are right out of Hollywood central casting. “Marie” and “Denise” play your long lost and adorable Aussie cousins who couldn’t be happier to see you and cannot do enough to make your visit to the little town of Port Douglas both memorable and perfect in all respects. The Coral Sea Retreat. A little gem of a place just a short ride up the hill into the rain forest from the town proper and hovering above the beach.

Pablo found our guide to the Daintree Rain Forest on the internet among many who offer similar tours. The Daintree Rain Forest merits World Heritage Nature Site status because it is the oldest rain forest in the world. (The Great Barrier Reef gets the same distinction because it is the largest living coral reef in the world.) Pete got our reservation prior to leaving the states because of his prompt and witty responses to all of Pablo’s email inquiries. We knew he was going to be “our kind of guide” from his emails. We were not disappointed.

Thus said, Pete is a capital C Character. One part Crocodile Dundee, one part parish Vicar, and one part your favorite professor of Everything, Pete made me wish the day didn’t have to end. It was like hanging out with Bill Nye the Science Guy for a day. Truly, I wanted to invite him to come and have dinner and a pint with us, but Pablo reminded me that hanging out with us is the guy’s j.o.b. and he got off work at 5 o’clock. Pete’s just the kind of tour guide who becomes your new BFF. Being a “people person” is a skill and one that is highly valued in the tourism industry but few people can do it in a way that is so genuine and engaging you literally forget that you PAID for the service. Pete is the best of the rare breed.

He will pick you up from your lodging (early pick up, 7 am) in his brand new, totally geared up range rover. Pete’s tours are private (your group can be no larger than 6 people) so there is a slight tariff for the privilege of not riding in a large van with 16 sweating tourists, but we have found that a private tour is well worth the added expense under some circumstances. A tour of the rain forest would definitely be one of those circumstances. Our first “desto” for the day long tour was a boat ride up the Daintree river. Because it was mating season, the crocs were otherwise engaged (presumably doing the nasty up some creek) and so we didn’t get to see one, but our boat captain was a veritable font of information re: all things Crocodylidae nevertheless.

On most of the standard “big” group tours I doubt that they venture very far into the forest on foot. Judging from the “path” (I use the word in the loosest possible connection to its meaning) we were on, we were the first human beings to do so. Along the way, Pete stopped every few feet to pick up and inspect every kind of insect and point out every kind of flora with a very colorful lecture. (He encouraged us to lick the green butts of some large ants saying, “they taste quite a bit like the Starburst candies”. Uh. No thanks, Pete.) His oration was centered around the improbable scenario wherein your plane crashes and you survive the crash but you are in the middle of an impenetrable rain forest without food or water. (Maybe just some teeny tiny bottles of Hiram Walker from the beverage cart survive the crash.) Pete really wanted us to survive our ordeal. Hence, his repeated earnest inquiry, “How will you know what is edible?” I took a photo of one specimen and asked Siri but she responded with a web search that turned up a link to “Christian Literature”. ??????

(Note to self: check into app idea for surviving a plane crash in the rain forest.)

We learned more than we could retain, but every single minute was highly entertaining nonetheless. Trekking deep into the forest, Pete took us to a kind of natural shrine formed by three enormous trees that reminded us of the sort in Cambodia (featured in the Lara Croft movie). This was a truly spiritual site for Pete and I feel honored to have been his guest there. (Thanks, Pete!)

Next up, we drove down to the beach to Cape Tribulation where Pete’s vast knowledge veered into oceanography and ocean related biology and Australian history. The most adventurous thing I did on the tour (besides promise to not freak out if a leach hopped a ride onto my person) was to taste some “happy flowers” (mushroom taste) which are known to be eaten in large quantities by the local “hippies”. (Yes, they are still around these parts, like vestiges of the ‘60s replete with dreads and tie dyed clothing, though I suppose the political aspirations have changed some. It seems more a lifestyle choice and fashion statement to these “hippies”, although they are the foundation of the artsy fartsy crowd up in Kuranda – more on this place later.)

Pete’s tour is sun-up to sun-down and you will be exhausted upon your return. For this reason we opted to have “the sisters” make dinner for us and serve it in the “tree house”, literally a large “great room” that sits atop the rainforest canopy and looks down to the beach. By far the two dinners we ate in the tree house were my favorite in Port Douglas, even over the joint that boasted to be Bill Clinton’s favorite eatery (when Bill is in P.D.). It’s a clue when you see a bunch of “Gourmet” mags lying about the inn, don’t you think? Breakfasts were among the best I’ve ever eaten anywhere at any B&B and you know how those B&Bers like to wow you at brekkie.

Our second tour was by “shared van” but it was only a half day tour, the journeys were short, and the van had great AC, so…doable. (I know. Sometimes I hate myself.) Anyway, Brett’s Half Day Tour up to Kuranda was well worth doing and not expensive for all you got with it. (See notes for details about the train ride up to Kuranda.) Kuranda is the “hippie town” and it will make you feel like you entered a time warp. The crafts market was great and I was forced to re-evaluate my previous uncharitable remarks about Australian art. It’s there. It’s just up in the mountains. (Be sure to find Amanda of Amanda Designs up there in the crafts market. Beautiful stuff. I only wish I’d bought a ton more of it.) Also, the BEST gallery of aboriginal art in P.D. (maybe anywhere) Doongal Aboriginal Art is up there too. (Notes again.) They specialize in didgeridoos if you are in the market. (They ship to the states, too!)

Also, because the big attraction to this area is generally thought to be The Great Barrier Reef, no trip here would be complete without going there. You CAN take a boat out and snorkel, but if you can  swing it, do yourself a big favor and splurge on a private helicopter. Words fail me to describe the experience. So worthwhile. There are a few companies that offer these rides and we took gbrhelicopters without a recommendation and just lucked out. I can’t imagine changing a thing….oh wait, I might sit up front next time so that when the pilot cavalierly asks if I want to take the controls, I will know enough to decline the invitation. I can’t say that Pablo was in possession of the same wisdom, and I have to say that for a few tense moments there as we flew over the rain forest canopy, (dense as a vast green carpet), I was actually fearful that we might have to employ Pete’s survival guide anecdotes. (Was it the black bugs with the red spots that will kill you in an instant, or was it the red bugs with the black spots?) It’s a guy thing. They think that they can “drive” anything.

Check the trip notes for restaurant advice in P.D. And, finally, know that if you plan to go to Port Douglas for beach time you’d be wise to avoid the “stinger” season. Four Mile Beach is gorgeous, but you can only swim in the tiny “net” they put up to keep the stingers out. (Jelly fish. One variety the size of your little pinkie finger will kill you deader than a flat rock in two seconds.

Finally, the sisters will drive you back to Cairns (even at the crack of dawn) and stop along the way for a wallaby siting. Next desto for us, the wine country of Australia!

Dateline: Sydney, AU

There is a distinct possibility that my intrepid traveling companion has become unpardonably spoiled by the practice of hiring private cars and liveried drivers to transport us to and fro in foreign cities. In Sydney we were told that doing so would be wasting good money, and Sydney is a touch on the expensive side. Not New York expensive or San Francisco expensive, but a private car for two costs more money for an airport transfer than the purchase price of my first car (in 1968 dollars). Needless to say, we took the recommended “shared van”.

The “shared van”, (once we arrived in rainy Sydney), was over an hour late. Ordinarily, no big deal, but since our flight out of the airport in Nadi, Fiji had been delayed by 8 (count ‘em, EIGHT) hours, and we’d run out of Fijian currency prior to noon, so our only sustenance for the day was something labeled “SNAX” by the airline, well…let’s just admit this: Pablo was not his usual affable traveling self. When you’ve become accustomed to strolling out of Arrivals or Customs and a competent, uniformed somebody is waiting there with a smile and your name on a sign (or these days more likely an iPad)… well, can we all agree? It’s easy to get used to that.

So after several costly international phone calls (an indulgence Pablo only allows himself under dire circumstances) we finally located the driver (who had been unhappily torn away from his own Sunday supper to meet a bunch of delayed flights). He informed us that we had another lengthy wait in store for us as he was also picking up another large group of passengers coming in from Asia. Because we had paid a non-refundable fee, (a respectable sum, though not nearly as pricey as a private car) in advance, chucking the van and just hiring a cab seemed needlessly wasteful.

The driver went off to corral his other passengers and we settled in (to ration our last hoarded miniature bag of “SNAX”), and to wait.

We had been forewarned that, much like Los Angeles, Sydney is a town that rolls up the sidewalks quite early on a Sunday night. As the minutes ticked by I could see Pablo’s anxiety ratchet up regarding the acquisition of a decent meal. (Think lion’s cage. Think shark tank. You can ask anybody who knows him, for a skinny guy, he LOVES his food.)

He was in such a state by the time the Asian flight arrived I grew fearful that he might “lose his filters”, as they say. I REALLY got worried when only a small portion of the party from Asia arrived explaining that the rest of their group was “on the way” down from the gate, but would require some “special assistance”.

When everyone was at long last present and accounted for, I thought about James Michener. Have you read James Michener’s “Hawaii”? (You should.) Michener’s description of the customs of 17th century Hawaiian Royalty, specifically the custom that force fed them (like French geese destined to become foie gras), until they had grown in girth to proportions that prohibited simple perambulation, is an interesting examination of variances in cross cultural attitudes toward obesity. In Hawaii, the obese royals were revered and attended to obsessively, even to the point of being carried around on pallets by small armies of loyal, adoring subjects, much like the Caesars of ancient Rome, who were not known to be fat so much as just lazy and incredibly arrogant. These were my thoughts about our fellow passengers, although it must be reported that the “Queen” among this group notably rejected our driver’s proffered wheel chair and insisted on making her way (slowly, ever so slowly) under her own steam to the car park. Her entourage seemed thrilled at her woefully slow progress. (Much to Pablo’s ever increasing dismay.)

Once we arrived at long last at the exit, and the driver brought the car around, there was a protracted negotiation about where this particular passenger was going to sit. (We stayed out of it but the driver became quite animated during this discussion mentioning many mechanical car parts, things like shock absorbers and axels and wheel wells. Next, it took 3 people and about fifteen minutes to push/pull her inside the van. Seat belt? Not going to happen, but not for lack of trying on the part of her family and the driver. (For another fifteen minutes.) Pablo was apoplectic by then. (I did not think it prudent to point out to him the amusing absurdity of panic over missing one single meal in the face of such a tableau. I have learned that a starving man’s sense of humor is usually the first thing to go.)

Of course, by the time we arrived at our lodgings, the restaurant in the Holiday Inn at the Rocks in Old Sydney was in black out mode. Ditto every reasonable eating venue within 10 miles. Only the Pancake house on the corner was open. It took us all of 45 seconds to off load our luggage and high tail it down the street to partake of some pancakes or ANYTHING. Pancakes on the Rocks is one of those strange establishments that knows its place among eateries. They seem to cater to the “after hours” crowd of hipsters who all work in food service and then meet up there for “lates”. I guess. I can think of no other reason for them to be busy at midnight on a Sunday night other than it’s the only game in town. Certainly not the food. But, they were just moderately busy. There were a few empty tables. Still, they made us “sign in” and then wait for a table. Some kind of weird protocol. They actually made us wait outside. In the rain. Welcome to Sydney!

The Holiday Inn is positioned so that some of the (upgraded) rooms have a view of the harbor and the Sydney Opera House. It is one of those midnight views from a hotel room that takes your breath away and kind of makes up for a crumby dinner. Upon waking in the morning however you will be dismayed to find that, while you were slumbering, an enormous cruise ship arrived in the harbor to completely obliterate that view for the whole of the day. (They leave Sydney at around 5 o’clock so until then, your “view” is of a passenger boat with presumably a population roughly the size of Cleveland, Ohio. A big boat.)

The H.I. restaurant serves a pricey buffet breakfast, about US$30. Per person. So we wandered out the back door and happily located the Fine Food Store which was exactly as advertised. Plus they give you free weefee connect. Less a store than a little café, it gets a morning rush, but the food is cooked to order and everything we ate over our 3 day stay was gourmet fare at half the cost of the hotel. Pancakes at the Rocks rapidly became just a bad dream.

You will probably get suckered into “climbing” the Sydney Harbor Bridge if you watched Oprah do it a few years ago – the thing to do in Sydney – but it will cost you US$200 each for the privilege. Let me spell that out for you. TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS. Per Person. We walked across for free, and because it was raining and completely fog-bound, we felt virtuous (and clever) about saving the dough. That said, I might recommend climbing it if you can do it on a splendidly clear day since Sydney is a beautiful city and the whole of the bay is quite stunning.

An alternative, and one we took, was a harbor cruise. These are like ferries or riverboat cruises and a good second to having a private sailboat show you around. Even the lunch served was pretty damn delicious. We were coerced into breaking with our normal abstemious day time habits and drinking a (few) mid-day alcoholic libations, since you pay for it either way. The boat cruises all around the bay and circles back to Darlington Harbor. You can hop off there and walk back to the Rocks if you so choose. It’s a bit of a hike but gives you a real sample of the city and its inhabitants. (Plus you need the exercise after the binge.) Darlington harbor itself is a big tourist trap. The Sydney Rue du Crappola. We had neglected to bring sunscreen or hats because it had been raining when we left our hotel, so we were forced to buy both. (Sorry about your inheritance, kids.) Then, we couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Our second evening we strolled down the street to have tapas and wine at The O Bar, a revolving restaurant that makes one full 360 degree revolution in just under two hours. A perfect amount of time for tapas, a few drinks and dessert. This is a city place on the 47th floor of a downtown business center building, full of happy hour gentry and young, trendy Sydney locals. The food was outstanding and the service was impeccable by a fleet of young, knowledgeable and friendly servers who were very happy to chit chat and inform. I wound up buying the chef’s cookbook because the menu was so impressive and his recipes boasted themselves to be heart healthy and low on the sugar index.

The next afternoon we sought out some galleries and checked out the Sydney Museum of Contemporary Art. You’re going to accuse me of hyperbole here, but I swear the premiere installation at the MoCA was just a large dark room full of more than a dozen dumpsters, all filled to the brim with mining ore. I guess it was a tribute to the importance of mining. Or sheer ugliness. Or, industry…? Dunno. Don’t care. This is art? At the end of the day my consensus was thus: If not for indigenous aboriginal art (which is both primitive and often beautiful) in Australia, there would be NO ART in Australia at all. Pablo says I’m being uncharitable. You be the judge. I’m willing to be corrected.

Our final night in Sydney was spent dining just behind the Holiday Inn on the heated patio of a sweet little Italian joint Caminetto that was both authentic and comfy-cozy in spite of the chilly weather. Nice people, owner operated, a stone’s throw from the hotel, and great food and wine. What could be better?

Pablo contacted the “shared van” people the next morning and tried to get them to pick us up earlier than contracted because we had our doubts about their estimations for travel from Old Sydney to the airport, but they insisted there was “plenty of time”. Actually, they were correct. There was “plenty of time”. We thoroughly enjoyed the mid-city, rush hour traffic ride, (our driver was obviously a race car driver when he wasn’t piloting the “shared van”), and the sprint from the van to the airline check in counter was ever so much fun. Plus, a complimentary reminder from the “shared van” people that there are way worse things in life than missing a flight.