We were tying up the loose ends in Sydney last Monday (8/6/2009). Still staying in the Strand hotel on William St in Darlinghurst we decided to make the most of a beautifully sunny, but chilly Sydney morning and hit Bondi beach.
A short hop from King’s Cross Rail Station to Bondi Junction and a skip via local bus found us on the legendary slice of surfer’s paradise. The high winds we’d been cursing in the city for the past few days meant something else here; Big waves; surfers of all ages were out in force.
Kicking off the thongs/jandals/flipflops (*delete as applicable) and strolling down to the water’s edge we both commented on the soft sand cooling between our toes, I moreso to keep Delyth’s attention off the many tanned, toned and tightly-clad surfers. This was the middle of winter but it hadn’t stopped many from hitting the surf or lounging on the sand.
We sat a while, watched some guys get told off for frisbee, watched someone get told off for smoking, I started to piece together why the beach was so nice. Confirmed in pressed metal, the list of don’ts on the entry to the beach was longer than that in my local pool, I read them out to Delyth: “no balls, no frisbees, no food, no smoking, no dogs, no heavy petting..” actually that last one wasn’t there but I wasn’t taking my chances with so many hunks around ogling her.
The list was long but almost completely adhered to by the hundreds, no doubt turning to thousands in the summer, who visit her. That list and the 4WD golf cart carrying the beach patrol were all that we needed to thank for such a beautiful and unspoilt beach.
I have to come clean, After reading the list I let out a derisive pommie snort, but on reflection I was completely wrong to. Wouldn’t it be nice to see Brits take that kind of responsibility for the beauty of our coast?
With the beach taken care of and a quick bout of McWifi Twitter-bragging (twagging?) we checked out the few shops and caught the bus back to Bondi Junction. Lots more shops, bars and restaurants there. We made a few calls home on the payphones in the large Westfield mall and grabbed a well earned bowl of Ramen noodles from a back street Chinese vendor. We said goodbye to Bondi Junction with a few Schooners of Bulmers and some very heavy eyelids.
Funny how tiring it is doing nothing…
Onto Christchurch
The next couple of days flew by in a flight-booking, shuttle-catching and flight-waiting haze. 10Pm on Wednesday, the tenth of June, we landed in Christchurch. Now I would say we’d caught a flight out there but the last hour was a bit more like a fairground ride. Bumpy air round ‘ere you know.
In the interest of adventure, and thanks to the excellent instructions from the hostel, we hopped on the number 10 airport service into Chrischurch’s central bus exchange. After a 5 minute wait we were on the 7 to Addington, stopping outside Tony’s Tyres to reach our accommodation for the next two nights…
Jail.
Jailtime in Christchurch
When booking, I told the Jailhouse that we’d be checking in late so the day before we arrived, instructions on how to break into the jail after hours were already sitting in my inbox. We found our allocated cell, had a brief look around the 130 year-old detention facility, made a quick plan for tomorrow, briefly considered fashioning a shiv, then put the lights out for some shuteye before the warden gave us any trouble.
On waking to an overcast but dry day we set about exploring the jail and finding out a bit more about its history. Built as the sole jail for Christchurch in the late 19th century it was in service as late as 1999. By then the town had grown outwards into a city and too close to the lags for comfort. A new prison was built and Addington jail closed the gates for what most thought was the last time.
Talk of museums, sports clubs and cafés was squashed when a couple bought the building. They gave it a clean, added a lick of paint and the beds used in the 2000 Sydney Olympic village, launching it as Christchurch’s kookiest backpacker hostel. Everything in there is absolutely immaculately clean and largely original (including the cell doors!), but also delightfully tongue-in-cheek. From the freshly-made striped bedding with a humbug (striped, of course) on the pillow to our “warden” receptionist’s insistence on calling us all inmates.