Canberra, Australia

I have lived in Australia for three years, experienced the ferociously harsh summers and the straight forward winters. I have journeyed extensively around this vast empty land, exploring the majority of Western Australia, the most famous landmarks of the Northern Territory, a reasonable chunk of South Australia, almost all of Victoria, a good overview of Tasmania, and a sprinkling of locations in New South Wales. However, despite all of this travel, including visits to four of the country’s five most populated metropolitan areas, until July of this year I had yet to set foot inside its capital, the city of Canberra, a place long looked down on by everyday Australians, many of whom have never even visited this hidden town. When a small alien place far removed from the majority of a nation’s citizens draws such a remarkable level of patronising attitudes and at times actual hatred, then you know that this is a place which needs to be checked out! With a friend, who I met on my odyssey around South America, living there, it provided the perfect excuse for a long overdue weekend in Canberra.

When one thinks of a nation’s capital, iconic world cities such as London, Paris, Tokyo and Buenos Aires come to mind, places which draw tourists from all around the globe. The capital of Australia on the other hand, has a very different level of status, tourism and acclaim both at home and abroad. Canberra’s history in fact is a strange one. When the Australian Federation was founded in 1901, a bitter and petty rivalry began between the two largest cities, Melbourne and Sydney, as to which would become the capital. To halt their persistent squabbling, a decision was made in 1908, to build a brand new city in between both, which would become the nation’s capital, with construction beginning 5 years later. So to put things simply, the city of Canberra is 100% planned, and as recently as 100 years ago, nothing existed on the remote territory it now resides on but for a few lonely dwellings and vast farm land. Even in today’s world, the capital of Australia feels curiously isolated from the rest of the country. It is approximately a three hour drive from Sydney, seven hours from Melbourne, ninety minutes from the coast, and surrounded by mountains. To keep things fully neutral between the states of Victoria and New South Wales, Canberra is located in a manufactured region named the Australian Capital Territory, or ACT, as it is more commonly referred to as.

The layout of the city is fascinating and unique, in that it isn’t really a city at all, in the known sense of the word, but rather a giant park with a collection of suburbs located inside it. You will struggle to find a greener looking metropolis than Canberra. Everywhere you walk you are encountered with wide open spaces, intermittently interrupted by occasional and spaced out governmental buildings. Canberra is built around an artificial lake named Lake Burley Griffin, named after Walter Burley Griffin, an American architect who originally designed the city (It is worth noting that when naming the lake they mistakenly assumed Burley Griffin was a double barrelled surname, when in fact Burley was his middle name. If I was ever fortunate to have something named after my good self, it would be the equivalent of calling such an object by the name of Patrick Sullivan!).

Another distinctive feature of Canberra is that, unlike most Australian towns and cities, it is not designed using the North American block system, but rather through a wheel-and-spoke pattern. Basically there are numerous circular and hexagon shaped roads throughout the metropolitan area, which act as giant roundabouts, with numerous subsidiary roads pointing outwards. Along with this unusual design, Canberra also has, what appears to the naked eye, the most conventional sized roundabouts per head of population in the world. You can’t travel two minutes without seeing one!

What is most bizarre about Canberra however, is that it doesn’t appear to have a centre. The Central Business district mainly consists of large governmental office buildings, and there is no obvious vibrant district where the bulk of shops, restaurants, bars and people congregate. To somebody not in the know, you would assume that very little happens in Canberra. Fortunately I had a friend who understands the entire city and its suburbs inside out and possessed a vast knowledge of where to experience great nightlife. During my time in the nation’s capital I enjoyed the Food and Wine Festival, dined at a restaurant which rivals the very best Melbourne has to offer, and had two monstrous nights on the beer. Canberra in fact, contrary to what people might think, has quite an energetic social, bar and food scene. You simply just need to know where to find it.

Once you get your head around the confusion illustrated above, Canberra offers numerous sights and activities to keep the body and mind occupied. Firstly there is the splendid ANZAC Parade, a wide long straight avenue dedicated to all Australians and New Zealanders who fought, perished and became wounded at war. The road stretches from Lake Burley Griffin, right up to the War Memorial, becoming the main focal point of the city from a tourist point of view. The avenue is coloured with brown granulated rock, giving the area a truly distinctive look. Along each side of the parade are various monuments constructed as a dedication to those who fought in various wars, such as the Korean War, Vietnam War etc. Not only is this area quite beautiful, but is also surprisingly serene, with very few cars utilising this long stretch. Perhaps this is Canberra’s way of paying their respects.

Located at the very top of ANZAC Parade is the Australian War Memorial, a museum dedicated to all wars in which Australians have been involved. Normally I am not hugely keen on museums, but this was a delightful exception. It contained exhibits on all the well-known wars which have decimated humanity, but also ones which I wasn’t even aware of, such as the Boer War in South Africa at the beginning of the 20th century. In addition, the actual architecture of this building is quite beautiful, and the view over ANZAC Parade from the top is quite mind-blowing. Best of all, this impressive display of information and memorabilia was absolutely free, a trait which is very common throughout Canberra’s tourist sites. Overall, I couldn’t have been happier with my couple of hours spent in what I would describe as a must-see attraction.

There are many other sites that Canberra has to offer, but as time was very limited, I focused on the whole reason Canberra was set up in the first place, to be the seat of the Australian government. I spent some time at Parliament House, a quite stunning piece of architecture, finished in 1988, and an example of how modern design doesn’t necessarily need to be so hideous and soulless. Inside I got a peak at the rooms where both the House of Representatives and the Senate engage in proceedings. What is most interesting about this construction however is that it is built into a hill, with grassland covering the top, allowing members of the general public the ability to stroll about and catch some rays, while Tony Abbott and the lads do business underneath. The thought process is that it is supposed to resemble the idea that nobody is above the people of Australia. Whether this actually plays out in everyday life in this country is a different debate entirely.

Perhaps the most endearing quality that Canberra possesses however, is the ability to escape to genuine remoteness within minutes. Only a two minute walk from the Australian War Memorial is the beginning of a beautiful hike up to the top Mount Ainslie and it’s picturesque views of the city, through proper bushland, reminiscent of what you would find in the countryside. Canberra is often referred to as the Bush Capital of Australia, thanks to its array of hiking and trekking opportunities which literally lie inside the city. No other major metropolis in Australia possesses this level of opportunity to the outdoor adventurer. Further afield is Namadgi National Park, which makes up 45% of the entire ACT, quashing the belief that this territory is literally Canberra and nothing else. I only had time to scratch the surface of this vast area, but there is no doubt that one could spend a week trekking and camping in Australia’s smallest territory, if one is that way inclined. A by-product of all this is that within only a few miles from the CBD, countless numbers of kangaroos can be found. They congregate in most of the suburbs, something which is not as common in the larger cities. A beautiful sight.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time in Canberra and experienced fantastic hospitality, something which will always enhance a trip. The city gets slated by a lot of people, and while it still has a long way to go to rival the bustling metropolis that is Melbourne, it is no longer merely a place where politicians and diplomats hang out. The city is evolving and beginning to discover a new identity, one with a bright future. I would recommend anybody with an open mind, and a desire to see something a little bit different, to check it out.

Saint Petersburg, Russia

After ten action packed days in Moscow, living off dodgy mass-produced sandwiches and putting questions to some of the world’s best athletes, it was time to switch off from the sport and to unwind. What better way to achieve this than to travel 700 kilometres away from the capital, northwest to the picturesque city of Saint Petersburg, for four eventful days in the ‘Venice of the North’. My journey initially was planned to be a solo voyage, but with a fellow Irish athletics journalist earning a welcome fortune on the final day of the championships, thanks largely to the dominant display of Kenyan 1500 metre runner Asbel Kiprop, he made the whacky but completely inspired decision to change his flights at the last minute, stay in the country for another week of banter, and to join me in Russia’s second city. Why not!

The city of Saint Petersburg was a direct result of the Great Northern War between Russia and Sweden in the early 18^th century. Led by Tsar Peter the Great, Russia sought to claim a strip of land by the Baltic Sea off the Swedish, as up to that point, the empire lacked a sufficient port which was in close proximity to the other maritime nations in Europe, and which could be operated all year round. Once victorious, Peter made arrangements for a brand new city to be built by the newly acclaimed sea presence, conscripted peasants from all over Russia, along with Swedish prisoners of war, to help with its construction, and within ten years moved the capital from its historical base in Moscow to this new forward thinking metropolis, where it would remain until the Russian Revolution in 1917. Peter never made a secret of his disdain for Moscow, the Kremlin, and traditional Russian culture and customs, which he claimed to be backward. Having travelled around Europe, under a different name in a forlorn attempt to hide his identity, to places such as Germany, Netherlands, England, France and Austria, the Tsar picked up a wide range of European ideas with regards industry, architecture, methods of work and so on and so forth. On his return, he had a vision to bring Russia into the 18^th century, and closer to Europe. That vision was Saint Petersburg.

Our odyssey began with a train journey from Moscow. Not particularly keen on taking the standard eight hour grind between the cities, we instead opted for the recently formed Sapsan, a high speed rail service. Formed in 2009, and similar in concept to the bullet trains in Japan, this service cuts the usual travel time between Russia’s top two cities in half, reaching maximum speeds of a blistering 250 kilometres per hour. It wasn't long before we took the customary journey down to ‘Carriage 5’ a.k.a. the location of the on-board public house. There we befriended a gentleman from Arklow, Ireland of all places. Having jetted off from the Emereld Isle during the recession of the 1980s to live initially in China, he has since been residing in Saint Petersburg for over 20 years and manages two hotels. Fascinating stories were exchanged about the Russian way of life and the outrageous levels of bureaucracy and red tape that exists almost everywhere in the nation, and he generously provided us with express passes to the Hermitage museum. Before we knew it, four rounds of somewhat cold alcoholic beverages had vanished. There’s certainly worse ways to pass a few hours!

The city of Saint Petersburg proved to be well worth the journey and expense. It truly is outrageously beautiful and it really was a no-brainer that UNESCO deemed it worthy of inscription onto its World Heritage list, an honour it received in 1991. It is built around Nevsky Prospect, the main avenue of the city, a bustling thoroughfare decorated with an array of restaurants, bars, cafes, shops, bridges and churches, architecturally designed with jaw-dropping splendour. To walk it takes roughly half a day, not because it is particularly long or physically demanding, but because the magnificence of each building repeatedly stops you in your tracks. It is a good thing that we live in an era of digital photography; otherwise I’d have gone through ten rolls of film within a couple of hours and spent a fortune getting them developed!

Sprawling out from this main street like the creepy legs of a huntsman spider are several winding, and at times narrow, canals, with gorgeous 18^th century buildings, each one a different colour to its neighbour, hugging these man made treasures. We took a short boat ride along these waterways to discover the continental charm the place has to offer. In general, the city has an evidently European feel to it, a fulfillment of Peter the Great’s vision from three hundred years ago. The design of Saint Petersburg could be described as Russia’s interpretation of the continent which it is geographically apart of, but culturally forever on the periphery. Elements of Italy and the Netherlands are visible in the prominent presence of canals, with comparisons regularly made to Venice and Amsterdam. The architecture is also very Italian in style, but with the differing colours of each building, which is more commonly seen in Germany and Denmark. The grand palaces are inspired by none other than the French, and there are sprinklings of British influence seen throughout the historical centre also.

The one building which sticks out as truly Russian in style, is the rather out of place, overbearing, slightly haunting, but incredibly captivating Church of the Spilt Blood. This traditional domed cathedral, with dozens of detailed paintings on its exterior, was constructed in the late 19^th Century on the site of Tsar Alexander II’s assassination. While perhaps it would be more at home in Moscow, the fact this place of worship is architecturally so far removed from all around it, gives it extra charisma, a kind of reminder that, despite the country’s move closer to the West, it is still Russia, and will always be separate and have its own very unique identity.

Arguably the most endearing attribute of Saint Petersburg is the number of exquisite palaces which it possesses. Right in the centre of the city, situated at the calming Palace Square, is the world renowned Hermitage Museum, consisting of the turquoise coloured Winter Palace, the official residence of the Russian monarchy for almost 200 years. The museum contains over three million pieces of art, and includes the largest collection of paintings in the world. While the artwork was very impressive, the real charm of this construction was the immense beauty of its interior décor, with countless outlandish chandeliers comfortably at ease in the presence of the many walls and ceilings, of varying colours and designs, decorated generously with golden ornaments.

Slightly further afield, situated roughly 45 minutes from the city by boat, is Peterhof Palace, a series of palaces and gardens designed at the orders of Peter the Great. Known as the “Russian Versailles”, the main palace, a light shade of brown in colour, is protected by the Grand Cascade, an array of awe-inspiring golden statues and natural spring fountains, a setting full of the European splendour which Saint Petersburg’s founder had envisaged. Almost as spectacular is Catherine’s Palace, situated in Pushkin, 25 kilometres south-east of the city centre. A striking sky blue in colour, this majestic piece of architecture served as the summer residence of the Russian Tsar, and consists of gardens as mighty as what Peterhof has to offer.

While available nationwide, and not something unique to Saint Petersburg, during my time in this magnificent city, I indulged in one of Russia’s most peculiar traditions, the banya. To put it simply, this is Russia’s equivalent of a spa. Inside this facility is what was described to me as the “Russian Sauna”, something so nauseatingly sizzling that the regular variety feels like a mild Melbourne winter morning in comparison. Once inside, you have the option of a Russian massage. This must take place in the scorching heat of the aforementioned sauna, and involves a man of little words (Russian, English or otherwise) proceeding to smack each and every part of the human flesh with birch branches. Once completed the protocol is to exit the banya and relax in one of the many TV rooms with more non English speaking strangers, where one has the opportunity to indulge in beer, for hydration purposes, and traditional Russian cuisine (consisting of pieces of beef wrapped in barely cooked pasta dough and drowned in sour cream, a truly regrettable choice!). Once satisfied, the entire process is repeated. To brand this practice as unusual would be an understatement, but it was quite refreshing to be the only non-local in the entire facility and to engage in a genuine Russian experience.  

Saint Petersburg is a truly captivating place with no shortage of things to do, places to see, and handsome architecture to marvel at. But does it top Moscow? I don’t think there is much doubt that, as a whole, Russia’s second city is more aesthetically beautiful than the capital. However, it is also more familiar, containing many characteristics you could effortlessly find in the easily visited, and on the beaten track European tourist meccas of Amsterdam, Venice and Paris, among others. Part of Moscow’s appeal is that it is so different to other places, providing a more alienated feeling which Saint Petersburg can’t match. The reality is that these two cities are complete opposites of each other and possess their own unique charms. They really cannot be compared and shouldn't be ranked against each other. If you want to see Russia you will simply have to visit both. It’s a tough life isn't it!

Moscow, Russia - The greatest city you have never considered

While the greatest athletes on Earth attempted to run faster, jump higher and throw further than each other inside the Luzhniki Stadium, a city existed on the outside, so very weird and wonderful, dark and upbeat, jaw-droppingly beautiful and disturbingly ugly. Going about its daily business in the unique manner that only it knows how, Moscow is a truly remarkable city of extreme contrasts, and one which simply could not be overlooked in the midst of a sporting spectacular.

Red Square

The first port of call for most tourists arriving in the Russian capital is the iconic Red Square, the historical, political and cultural centre of Moscow, and the symbolic core of the nation. This grand vast plaza contains deep historical significance and an array of unique Russian architecture. Stretching along its west side are the walls of the Kremlin, and its overbearing towers. To the east lies the GUM Department Store, built in the late 19th century, an ideal location for a foreigner to divide his financial worth in half. In between is the often overlooked but charming red-bricked State Historical Museum, with the Kazan Cathedral cuddled in cosily beside it.

Directly facing this, on the other end of the square, is the picture of Russia, one of the greatest examples of dramatic architectural beauty to be found anywhere in the world, the splendid multi-coloured, onion-shaped domed church, Saint Basil’s Cathedral. This was constructed between 1555 and 1561 at the orders of the infamous Tsar, Ivan the Terrible, to commemorate Russia’s successful siege of the city of Kazan. During communist rule, this house of worship was confiscated from the Russian Orthodox Church as part of a state atheism programme, and came dangerously close to complete destruction, as long standing dictator, Joseph Stalin, viewed this eccentric marvel as a hindrance to a potentially larger Red Square. Fortunately, the infamous tyrant had a change of heart, and the church survived unscathed.

Red Square is certainly a symbol of a traumatic past for Russia, with Ivan the Terrible conducting public executions on its cobbled stones during his reign of torture, while it was the site of countless military parades during communist rule. The Lenin Mausoleum, situated in front of the Kremlin walls, is a stark and permanent reminder of a more troubled time, as the body of political revolutionary Vladimir Lenin, the first dictator of the Soviet Union, lies preserved, drawing hundreds of visitors each day. But somehow Red Square has withstood the trauma of years gone by, and is now the face of a new Russia, one with growing freedom and opportunity.

The Kremlin

Seated comfortably beside Red Square is the remarkable Kremlin, a fortified complex which overlooks the Moscow River. In existence for over 800 years, the current walls were built in the late 15th century, run in a triangular manner for approximately 2.2 kilometres, are as high as 19 metres, as thick as 6 metres, and contains twenty pompous towers. This setting is the main political centre of Russia, both historically and presently. It was the residence of the Russian Tsar for centuries until Peter the Great moved the capital to Saint Petersburg. After the Russian Revolution, Moscow was reinstated as the nation’s capital, and it was the dwelling for numerous Soviet dictators, and today, the President of Russia, Vladimir Putin, lives inside these much photographed walls.

Within this historic fort lies 68 acres of historic palaces, cathedrals, churches, cannons and the Ivan the Great Bell Tower, which provides an astonishing view of the exceptional architecture which exists here. I have travelled far and wide and have never seen constructions so beautiful in all my life, with Cathedral Square being the climax, with several typical Russian style onion shaped domed churches socialising together. The interior of each is remarkable, with every wall, ceiling, pillar and alter painted with artistic religious imagery, and decorated with gold coloured ornaments. It truly is a sight to behold and it is not surprising that, together with Red Square, the Kremlin was enlisted as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1990.

Hidden treasures 

However, it’s the lesser known gems which set Moscow apart. Right beside the thronged Red Square is the small district of Kitay Gorod, an area containing a countless number of picturesque Russian churches and other historic constructions, situated on almost every corner. With architecture nearly as magnificent as the aforementioned Saint Basil’s Cathedral, this little inner suburb, curiously devoid of tourists, is the forgotten, but no less noteworthy, part of Moscow’s historic centre. Closer to the Luzhniki Stadium, another UNESCO World Heritage Site stands proudly, the charming Novodevichy Convent, the city’s best known cloister, with several churches and towers within its ancient walls. Further south is the capital’s final UNESCO approved attraction, the remarkable white columned Church of the Ascension, in the former royal estate of Kolomenskoye, constructed in distinctive white stone to commemorate the birth of a boy who would later become known as Ivan the Terrible. If awe-inspiring architecture is not your thing, then there is the bustling Izmailova Market to satisfy your cultural needs, with an overwhelming number of stalls selling all kinds of traditional or communist influenced matryoshka dolls, crafts and other peculiar paraphernalia. Generally I find markets to be dull, repetitive and uninspiring, but every rule has its exception, and I was quite captivated by the vast array of eccentric goods which were on offer.

The marvellous metro 

Nowhere portrays the uniqueness of this city more than the metro. Each day this extensive, efficient and timely rail network transports nine million Muscovites, more than that of London and New York City combined. What makes Moscow’s system stand out, however, is that it doubles up as a sort of art gallery. Many stations contain a stunning range of detailed paintings, sculptors, marble walls, stained glass, chandeliers, high ceilings and mosaics, with each platform a completely different style to the next. It truly is a site which needs to be seen to be fully appreciated and is one of the positive attributes that came out of Joseph Stalin’s totalitarian regime, even if the paintings depict such blatant Soviet propaganda. How much easier would the daily grind to the office be if one had such magnificent artwork to marvel at?!

Variety is the spice of life

What is most endearing about a city so incredibly alternative as Moscow are the little peculiarities one encounters just from roaming the city streets. The following are some of the odd and fascinating things I have come across during my brief stay in this bustling metropolis:

1) Being world renowned for its vodka, I expected each bar to provide an unending list of various options for one looking to dabble in this very harsh spirit. However all that seemed to be available were brands such as Smirnoff, known the world over, or foreign produced product. Searching for craft, or even mainstream, Russian beer proved even more problematic, with most restaurants offering a wide range of Czech, German, and occasionally Irish alcoholic beverages only. You would be forgiven for thinking that the locals are rather ashamed of their home produced equivalent.

2) Being from a western nation, I have become very familiar with tobacco free bars and restaurants. A trip to Moscow is like being warped back into a cloudy and polluted 1980s. Bring your inhaler.

3) On each and every visit to a famous tourist attraction, I encountered multiple newlyweds being dramatically photographed in front of a historical backdrop, a habit which I can only assume is a local tradition. It did not matter what day of the week it was, you did not have to walk far to find the latest happy couple. I have come to the presumptuous conclusions that each Russian must marry at least three times on average throughout a lifetime. How else can so many weddings be explained!

4) While strolling down a narrow footpath, it is not uncommon to encounter a manufactured dead end, with labourers drilling holes into the sidewalk in theatrical fashion, thus subjecting pedestrians to side-step out onto the chaotic and treacherous road to continue their two-legged transport.

5) Outside the sturdy walls of the Kremlin stand expressionless security guards. With a machine gun in hand, each soldier performs a highly commendable impersonation of a statue, until the big hand strokes twelve, and the changing of the guard takes place, an intimidating march marking an epic transformation. Legs locked impossibly straight, reaching angles greater than 90 degrees, these grim officials do their best to cause themselves long term Achilles damage. Protecting the Kremlin seems like more of a historical tradition than a necessity, as the guards completely disappear at night anyway, and the walls are so high and thick, that no lunatic would remotely consider climbing over.

6) Do not attempt to enter a metro station having forgotten to swipe your ticket first. The gates will close in epic fashion, punching you furiously on both hips, accompanied by a loud siren to make yourself the centre of attention. Honestly, do not do this.

7) The Moscow metro may be highly efficient for locals, but a first time tourist is likely to encounter an induction phase incorporating steady laps of the station, leading to a range of emotions including frustration and heartache. At the main entrance of each station, its name is publicised in both the alien Cyrillic and familiar roman form. However, once you enter, it becomes an exclusive Cyrillic affair, and due to many of the inadequate metro maps having solely the roman names listed, you are very much on your own, leading to educated guesses as to what a backwards ‘R’ may represent.

8) While the centre of Moscow contains structures so unimaginably striking, if you venture out into the suburbs you gain a haunting glimpse of a troubled and unforgotten past. The outskirts of the city are littered with mass produced hideous run down 1960s apartment blocks, eyesore’s which would make the thankfully demolished Ballymun flats in Dublin seem like Notre Dame Cathedral in comparison.

9) Talking to a Russian security guard may be the equivalent of drawing banter from a rock, but when on duty, there can be no denying that they are the best in the business, the finest enforcers of strict rules, pedantic or otherwise. Inside the Kremlin, despite the fact there is less traffic there than on the Gibb River Road in remote Western Australia, one is only allowed to cross at zebra crossings, which are quite rare in frequency. Should you feel adventurous and opt to engage in a bit of jay-walking, the attentive official blows his whistle sharply. Do not attempt to enter through open gates into eye-catching palaces either as this leads to the same result. These men are very much on the ball.

10) As a general rule, if there is a choice between a simple way of doing something or a more complex alternative, then rest assured in Russia the more difficult option will generally be considered. Whether it is the excruciating visa process, or something as simple as purchasing a ticket to enter a tourist attraction, everything involves a level of exhausting and unnecessary bureaucracy. Making things more problematic for no other reason but for the pure sake of it is one of Russia’s finest traits.

11) In Moscow Vladimir Lenin is a revered man. Wherever you walk you encounter reminders of how mighty the founder of the Bolshevik revolutionary group was. There is a statue outside the Luzhniki Stadium dedicated to him, metro stations called after his name, countless paintings on the platforms portraying his glory and power. At the markets, his face appears on postcards, playing cards, posters and even traditional matryoshka dolls. Buenos Aires worships Diego Maradona. In Moscow, it is all about Lenin.

12) I had been warned that Moscow can be quite dangerous at night, but thankfully I did not witness anything remotely unsettling, with the exception of one incident. Walking back to my accommodation after several drinks late one night, a crazy local wearing a mask from the movie “Scream” opted to jump in front of me for no other reason but the pure hilarity of it. If that is not creepy then I do not know what is.

Moscow is a city filled with the unusual and unpredictable. It is a place completely misjudged. For those who have yet to visit, I can safely say that most of what you believe about this weird and wonderful city is wrong. The local people DO smile. They ARE friendly, good fun and helpful. The weather is NOT minus thirty degrees all year around. And notwithstanding the curious tale above, this metropolis IS perfectly safe, if one engages in the principle of common sense. I would highly recommend grinding out the torture that is the visa process, because once you set foot in this beautiful and captivating capital you will simply wonder why you had never visited before.

Moscow, Russia - The good, the bad and the ridiculous

In total there were approximately 3,000 media accredited guests in Moscow. Countless hours are spent interviewing athletes, reporting on the success of the victors, while sometimes commenting on the underperformances of others. Members of the media like to give off the idea that they are experts in what they write about, something which I have sadly come to realise is complete fantasy in a lot of cases, but can they follow their own documented advice? Can they practice what they preach? The answer is an emphatic “nyet”.

“He disgraced the Irish singlet” 

In every edition of the World Championships since Rome in 1987, the IAAF have organised an 800m media race, open for any member of the hard-working, coffee swilling press, and Moscow 2013 was to be no different. 118 of the world’s most finely tuned journalists congregated on the Luzhniki Stadium to do battle over two laps of the track during the downtime between morning and evening sessions on Thursday 15th August. The event was split into 13 heats, supposedly graded based on personal bests, with the results merged at the end to determine the prize winners.

If the above sounds even semi-serious, then I can assure you this was not the case. While there were some respectable times recorded, the event was more about having a bit of fun and getting some media members involved in extra-curricular activities, rather than staring into a bright screen from morning to night. There was one woman who took over six minutes to complete the distance, a man who ran with a high-tech sports camera over his shoulder, another in full denim jeans, and my compatriot, Cathal Dennehy, who donned some worn out road running shoes and floppy shorts, hadn’t set foot on a track in years, and didn’t even bother to warm up, yet finished in third place overall in a steady 2:05, for his efforts receiving a watch valued at $400 from none other than double Olympic silver medallist Yohan Blake.

In stark contrast, I actually opted to train specifically for this distance in the weeks leading up to the World Championships. While I am not much of a runner, and 800m is not my favoured event by any means, the thought process was that one does not often get to race on such a perfect track in a large, albeit completely empty, stadium. Sadly, the race itself didn’t go to plan, as a week of sickness knocked any sort of strength out of my body, and I limbered home to a poor 2:21 and 19th place overall. Moments later Cathal and myself, both donning official Irish vests, were cornered by the good folk at Flotrack and requested to give an interview, resulting in my overjoyed team mate declaring that I had disgraced the Irish singlet. It was hard to disagree, and to be fair this level of banter just summed up the whole occasion. It is no exaggeration when I say that this race was one of the most enjoyable parts of the entire week. It was a surreal experience having Yohan Blake as the official starter for each heat, and 800m silver medallist Nick Symmonds watching on intently. While I am sure I will run much quicker in the future, it is difficult to envisage having quite as much fun in the process.

Breaking the Silence 

While I would never describe myself as a cynic, and indeed my belief has long been that athletics is a lot cleaner than the media give it credit for, and that it does infinitely more than higher profile sports to catch drug cheats, the fact still remains that there are some athletes involved willing to take a short cut towards success. With the recent doping scandals in the 100m involving multi-medallists Tyson Gay and Asafa Powell, it seemed appropriate that questions needed to be asked. Most journalists, however, shied away from such sensitive topics. It would be incorrect to say that drug related questions were forbidden, but they certainly were frowned upon, not so much by the organisers, but by certain athletes themselves, with mild groans and eyes reaching for heaven when the words “WADA” and “doping” were uttered.

Instead we were treated to a barrage of thought provoking questions reflecting a new age of sports journalism. “Usain, would you like to be a professional footballer after you retire?” “Usain, what position would you play?” “Who is your favourite player?” “Can you tell us a little more about that chicken dance you perfected this evening?” To say this caused agony to the brain cells would be an understatement. Here we were in the press conference of an event which has had an enormous doping controversy of late, and all people cared about was child’s talk.

Eventually my countryman, Cathal Dennehy, could no longer hack such mind-numbing dialogue and reached for the microphone. “Usain, would you be in favour of lifetime bans for drug cheats?” he uttered, to which he received the most politically correct rote learned answer you could imagine. “That’s not for me to decide, it’s for the people upstairs.” The following evening a similar question was posed to the three medallists in the women’s 100m, Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce, Murielle Ahoure and Carmelita Jeter, with the added query on their attitude towards the returning of prize money earned as potential punishment for serious doping offences. Ten seconds of awkward silence, eyes fixed firmly on the ground, before Fraser Pryce at least had the decency to attempt yet another unconvincing answer, mirroring Bolt’s reply the previous evening.

This was in stark contrast to ten minutes earlier when New Zealand shot putter Valerie Adams was quizzed about her thoughts on the possible introduction of lifetime bans for drug cheats. What followed was a passionate rant about how doping has no place in sport, about how she has put several ounces of blood sweat and tears into the sport she truly loves. About how she can never forgive the Belarusian woman, Nadzeya Ostapchuk, for robbing her of a glorious and deserved moment of celebration in London last year. About how if it was up to her, athletes convicted of doping would never be allowed back in the sport. Her hand placed firmly on her heart, her eyes welling up, this was a reply which drew a rare round of applause in the press conference room. It is how you would expect a clean athlete to respond to a question about the most offensive act in the sport of track and field. I have no place to be making any specific public accusations, but the comments from the leading 100m runners, and general attitude and vibe that went with them, do little to convince the onlooker that the right moves are being made to stamp the cancer of doping out of the sport.

A job well done 

Negative moments were a rarity however, and the championships overall were a big success. There had been criticisms early on with regards to low attendances, but once the event gained momentum there were close to 60,000 people in attendance every night, figures which very few other sports can attract to their showpiece event. A personal observation I made was that the Russian audience was actually quite knowledgeable about the sport, something which was completely lacking in Daegu two years ago. They recognised straight away, while in mid-air, if a javelin throw was poor, they knew if a Russian was fading on the last lap and was not going to catch the leading three, and they clearly deciphered that the first evening session had a dreadful line-up of uninspiring heats, and opted to wait for more exciting evenings to attend. They created an atmosphere, particularly the night of Yelena Isinbayeva’s victory in the pole vault, which has topped any other I have experienced in the previous three championships I have attended.

Arguably the most important aspect of events like these is the opportunity to inspire future generations to take up the sport, to encourage kids to get involved, creating healthy habits which they can take with them throughout adulthood. Moscow 2013 came out with the highest grade in this regard. Outside the stadium were all kinds of interactive games and activities. There was a 30m temporary track with electronic timing for those who wanted to sprint, mini hurdles for the more adventurous, a long jump pit, javelins, hammers, you name it. There was a high jump bar set to the ridiculous world record of 2.45m, displaying clearly to the average person on the street just how good the world’s best are. There were coaching sessions teaching the proper technique of various events. Various high profile athletes such as Blanka Vlasic, Allyson Felix and Yohan Blake made regular appearances to sign autographs. It was everything which London 2012 wasn’t. It was far more accessible to the fans, the casual viewers and most importantly to the children of the host city, the future athletes of this great sport.

To the organising committee, the volunteers and the people of Moscow, I think I speak for most media members when I say spasiba.

Moscow, Russia - Pure daycent

Despite all the perks that go with working in the media at one of the world’s great sporting events, what makes a championship truly memorable are the performances of the athletes themselves, and from an Irish point of view there was none more outstanding than that of Cork’s Robert Heffernan. Having suffered a plethora of near misses in major championships, namely fourth places finishes in both the 20km and 50km race walks at the 2010 European Championships in Barcelona and again at the London Olympics last year over the longer distance, the 35 year old finally claimed the medal that had eluded him, winning gold in the men’s 50km walk, becoming only the third world champion from the Emerald Isle, following Eamonn Coghlan in 1983 and the legendary Sonia O’Sullivan in 1995. The result was immense, just reward for almost two decades of hard graft. The experience surrounding the event, however, was on another level.

While the support along the two kilometre loop, which Heffernan had to negotiate on no less than twenty-four occasions, was never going to be near that of London last year, there were nonetheless a decent sprinkling of Irish supporters stretched along the course, slowly damaging their vocal chords over the extended period of time that is required when your athlete is competing in the longest event on the championship programme. At the half way mark, as the early leaders dropped back, I muttered to myself inaudibly that the Togher AC athlete had the victory on the tip of his finger nails. While one never wants to tempt faith, he looked so incredibly comfortable while those around him faded in rising temperatures. With less than two kilometres remaining and a historic victory all but guaranteed, a group of us began a mad dash for the stadium, desperate to make it inside and not to miss the crowning moment. The security guards did their best to slow this transition as much as they could, but fortunately I took my place by the finish line with a few minutes to spare, ready to soak in a moment of glory so rare to supporters from such a small country. 

The immediate aftermath was chaotic for Heffernan as he was inundated with interviews, no doubt being asked the exact same questions by each reporter. Despite all this, the charismatic Corkman spent a solid ten minutes talking to myself and Cathal, providing an unprecedented level of banter, comedy and anecdotes. I struggle to think of a more likeable Irish sporting hero, and with the outspoken personality he possesses together with his extraordinary success, I really believe that he has the potential to become a genuine superstar back home, in a market dominated by GAA, football and rugby players. Shortly afterwards, he was seated in the winners chair at the press conference, looking bemused at such a new experience, being fired dozens of questions from overjoyed Irish journalists, who in no uncertain terms took over the public discussion. One had to feel slightly sorry for Jarrod Tallent of Australia, who despite having achieved yet another major medal, was not queried once. This moment was all about one man.

Well documented at this stage, Ireland’s main broadcaster, RTE opted not to cover the World Championships, leaving the country one of the only in Europe without national television presence inside the Luzhniki Stadium, an embarrassing, yet recurring, and sadly unsurprising theme. Anybody with the smallest knowledge of the sport knew that Robert Heffernan was going to be at the business end of proceedings come the championships and it is astonishing that RTE lacked the foresight to, at the very least, purchase the rights to his particular race, like what the broadcaster did in 2003 when only Sonia O’Sullivan’s 5000m final was aired. In addition, not one of the major Irish broadsheet newspapers bothered to send a journalist to Moscow, opting instead to sit at home, and attempt to nab some quotes off those who bothered to attend the event, and then write articles in a manner which fools the oblivious reader into thinking they were in the Russian capital, by Rob’s side, every step of the way.

The minutes and hours following Heffernan’s victory were comical and pathetic simultaneously. Phone calls and emails came through from RTE, other radio stations, and broadsheet newspapers looking for a piece of the action. There was mass panic back home. A sport, a championship, and an athlete which a week earlier served no financial purpose to any of the above, was now the latest hot story, and they wanted in on the action. The fact the championships were ignored by the Irish media was not lost on members of the foreign press, many of whom were astonished that a national broadcaster would not attend the third largest sporting event on the planet. But I guess the Confederations Cup is more important!

The celebrations later that evening were spectacular. The meeting point was confirmed to be Silvers Irish Bar, a tiny tavern just off Moscow’s iconic Red Square. Word then spread like wildfire. Everybody in Russia’s capital involved in Irish athletics congregated in this cosy pub, much to the very visible dismay of the local bartenders, who had anticipated an easy Wednesday night’s work. There were approximately thirty people in attendance, a small but highly dedicated and passionate group of people, all with grins as wide as Galway Bay. The man himself, together with wife Marian, made a grand entrance at 10pm, a moment which was greeted by a deafening eruption. From that moment on, the pints of Guinness and otherwise were flowing, with Rob himself getting in on the act for a much deserved and long overdue couple of beers. The festivities continued until after 3am with Togher’s finest leading the sing-a-long of some traditional Cork classics.

I never anticipated anything topping the experience of being in the Excel Arena for Katie Taylor’s Olympic boxing gold last year, but Moscow has now provided a serious challenger to this crown.

Moscow, Russia - The best seat in the house

Having already spectated at the European Championships in Barcelona in 2010, the World Championships in Daegu, South Korea the following year, and the London Olympics in 2012, the thought of missing out on the next congregation of the world’s finest athletes, in a city forever on my bucket list of travel destinations, was simply not entertained. Flights and tickets were booked and I was ready to experience it all again. Then, on a balmy March evening in Melbourne, as I sat in a charming Irish pub, listening to a trad session, while sipping on a few adequately poured pints of Guinness, an idea was born. A friend of mine, seated on the other end of the table, planted the seed. “Why don’t you apply for a media pass?” The thought had never crossed my mind and at first the pure notion of it seemed ridiculous. Sure isn’t media accreditation for those lads you see on the TV, working for RTE television, and the major Irish newspapers? Wouldn’t they be requiring this ahead of somebody like myself? The more I thought about my friend’s suggestion the more valid it seemed and it wasn’t long before I was 100% committed to the plan. A couple of months later my application was approved by the IAAF and I was ready to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, a glimpse at one of the world’s greatest sporting events, in the historical city of Moscow, from the best seat in the house.

The life of a Tsar 

From the moment we set foot inside the Luzhniki complex, the site of the 1980 Olympic Games, myself, and a fellow Irish journalist, Cathal Dennehy, were given the full tsar treatment. Following the short and pain free process of signing in and receiving our accreditation badges, which would allow us access to certain areas of the venue throughout the championships, we were provided with a rake of free paraphernalia; a public transport pass, a bag, championship programmes, a statistics book, and an invitation to the media party taking place that evening. Never the type to reject the offer of free grub and booze, we spent a thoroughly enjoyable evening drinking and discussing athletics with journalists from all over the world, with much good natured trash talking about who would claim more medals. It was the eve of the championships and excitement was really starting to build. I arrived as a journalist, but had no intention of forgetting my roots as a fan.

The media setup was top notch. For starters, the accreditation badge allowed one to sit anywhere in the general spectator section of the stadium, which resulted in several nights spent seated in the sixth row, a mere four metres from the finish line, as the world’s fastest, strongest and most durable whizzed past. As we witnessed Jamaica’s Usain Bolt crush his competitors yet again in the men’s 100m, I couldn’t help but cast my mind back to the London Olympics last year, and the fact that there were many people who took out a small mortgage to witness the same race involving a similar line-up. You would need to be stone mad not to take advantage of perks like these.

Getting down to business 

In addition to the above, the organising committee did many things so well to ensure that members of the media could work efficiently, effectively and in a timely manner. Inside the stadium, overlooking the finish line, there were countless media workstations. These contained two screens; one with a touch feature providing start lists, results, summaries, medal tables and every other piece of statistical heaven which sporting anoraks like myself thrive upon, while the other contained several television channels, allowing me to watch whatever event I wished, a sort of red button type feature. This was a godsend as some of the field events were taking place on the other side of the stadium and therefore were out of natural view for even those with twenty twenty vision.

Furthermore, within barely three minutes of a race concluding, the eager volunteers would provide you with a print out of the results. Then there was the mixed zone, where athletes of varying emotions would pass through in the immediate aftermath of the conclusion of their race or event, providing an opportunity to nab some interviews, quotes and anecdotes. Close by was the press conference room, where the medallists in each event would congregate afterwards, allowing an opportunity to fire questions at the interviewees in a public environment. Meanwhile, over in the main media centre, there contained numerous top of the range personal computers, quality printers, high speed internet, along with WiFi. You only had to shuffle from your seat a mere ten metres and you had access to pigeon holes filled with race results, start lists, previews, interview quotes, you name it. Never in my life have all the tools required to do a job been so readily available to me.

By the book

This is not to say there weren't some flaws when it came to the organisation of this event. At the last World Championships, in South Korea, I was won over by the polite manner, friendliness and pure innocence of the people working on security. Granted they weren't the most effective at their appointed roles, and I regularly gained access to the athletes section of the stadium with remarkable ease, but there existed a laid back attitude and atmosphere, which provided a pleasant experience for all parties involved. The men working on security in Moscow on the other hand were more akin to the type you would expect to find on guard outside the Kremlin or any other political institution, a casual throwback to communist times.

My accreditation badge only allowed access to certain areas, and through specific entrances, and by God, were those security guards going to enforce things to the extreme letter of the law, with ruthless, unforgiving and intimidating efficiency. The media area of the stadium was poorly signposted, which meant we spent the first three days of the event consistently lost, unable to find our way to the mixed zone, press conference area, media work stations, and any other location which required our attendance.

“Please sir, I just need to go through that gate to get into my seat” I uttered, trying to reason to a guard with a face as long as Chile. “Nyet, Nyet” he muttered, his cheek muscles physically unable to lift upwards. Nyet, a word we would hear on at least twenty dozen occasions throughout the championships, as the security guards threw logic out the window and enforced a level of red tape, so unnecessary and complex, it would break a man on the brink. “I am supposed to be in that section, please just let me through that gate now and it will all be good” I pleaded while pointing furiously, albeit in great vein, sadly aware of his complete lack of any English vocabulary. He responded by crossing his arms, forming an X sign, and literally pushed me back, throwing around a bunch of hand gestures indicating that I needed to travel the scenic route to gain access to my appointed spot. But of course. This is Russia, a fascinating place where things are made more complex for the pure sake of it. Eventually I found out the problem at hand. I had accidently entered an area I was not supposed to have access to, the photographers section. Rather than let me correct this error swiftly and allow me out the exit gate into the section I was supposed to be in, he sent me on a journey down steps, under tunnels, up more stairs, across hall ways, through press rooms, and up one final flight. It did not matter that this was clinically insane, pointless and a waste of my time, there was apparently only one entrance by which I was entitled to enter through, and he was not budging from these convoluted rules. This is just one example of the astonishing levels of bureaucracy we encountered all week, resulting in a grade of effort unprecedented for such trivial matters.

Hospitality 

It would have been easy to stereotype the Russian people based on these grim and harsh soldier-like creatures, and indeed Usain Bolt made multiple references throughout the week about how he believed the local people were far too serious and didn’t smile enough. However, having interacted with countless Russian people, both inside and outside the confines of the Luzhniki complex, I can gladly say that the world’s fastest human is completely incorrect in his judgments. The Russian people proved to be extremely helpful, pleasant and friendly, were great fun to be around, and yes, they did smile, a lot. Nobody displayed this underrated likeability and charm better than the championship volunteers, who consistently went above and beyond to ensure we had everything we required. One particular moment which will long stick in the memory was when the two of us finished up working quite late, with the clock ticking dangerously towards 1pm, and the closure of the Moscow metro. Not only did two female volunteers call us a taxi, but in addition walked with us for twenty minutes to ensure we reached our pick-up spot safely and painlessly. You simply do not forget kind gestures like that, a bench mark to which all countries and sporting events should aspire to.

Tasmania, Australia

A little over a year ago I was captivated by the beauty and history of the quaint city of Hobart, the capital of Tasmania. The three days I spent there, exploring Australia’s convict past, gave me a small taster for the Island State, which left me hungry to fully explore Van Deimen’s Land. An unexpected additional holiday from work presented itself and I welcomed such an opportunity with open arms, and planned a three day trip of intense sightseeing beginning in Launceston, finishing in Hobart, taking in some of Tasmania’s best known sights on both the West and East Coasts, through the market leading tour operator, Under Down Under.

The adventure began in Launceston, the second largest city in the state, a short one hour plane hop from Melbourne. Settled in 1806, it is the third oldest city in Australia, after Sydney and its Tasmanian brother, Hobart. However, despite its age, the city is surprisingly unattractive. Old Victorian architecture is certainly visible throughout this urban area, and in some cases is quite eye-pleasing. However, such buildings are sinfully separated at regular intervals by numerous mid-20^th century generic atrocities. It is quite hard to feel any sense of genuine history walking around Launceston, with its perfectly efficient grid-like block system doing little to make the city feel in any way unique. It may only be a couple of years older, but its sibling, Hobart, is light years ahead in terms of attractiveness and detectable history.

A characteristic of Launceston which I found particularly bizarre was its nightlife, or lack of, to be fully precise. I spent both Friday and Saturday evenings in the city, walked the length and breadth of it, and there was quite literally nothing happening. There were almost no cars on the roads, pedestrians were in short supply, restaurants were half full, and there were almost more staff than customers in the neglected bars. Granted Tasmania is not the most populated land in the world, containing approximately half a million residents in an area roughly the size of Ireland, but one would expect a little more from its second largest metropolis, with a population of a little over 100,000.

One aspect which Launceston sells itself on is its setting, and the natural beauty which surrounds it, and to be fair, there is an element of truth to it. How many cities in the world have a gorge within three kilometres of the city centre? Cataract Gorge provides a pleasant stroll for locals on a Sunday morning, to walk off the hangover from an evening of boozing in half empty pubs. However, when one has visited every gorge known to man in the isolated Kimberley region of Western Australia, standards inevitably rise tenfold. Frankly, I couldn’t get excited about walking along a perfectly smooth paved path. The views were nice, but the walk was not in the slightest bit challenging or rewarding. To make matters worse, the river basin, which should have been the climax of the short journey into the gorge, is littered with all sorts of mod-cons to make humans feel just that little more comfortable; a swimming pool, a chair lift, and two cafes, as if one wasn’t enough. What an unfortunate way to treat an area of natural beauty!

The main purpose of the trip, however, was to explore the more rural parts of Tasmania. My first day took me over to the west side of the state, to Cradle Mountain, which is part of the UNESCO World Heritage listed, Tasmanian Wilderness. Owing to its stunning untouched natural beauty, which resembles New Zealand’s South Island, but on a smaller scale, Cradle Mountain is one of Tasmania’s best known tourist attractions. Numerous mountains surround the area’s many bright blue lakes, with the iconic and distinctive Cradle Mountain itself, towering above the pristine, glacially formed, Dove Lake. Given that weather conditions are extremely volatile in this region, and that the mountain is not visible for over half the days of the year, I could not have been luckier with what I was presented with; bright blue skies, with some intermittent cloud cover. The weather was chilly but fresh, which was a godsend given the amount of quad-aching hiking I did over the course of three hours. The views of the vast area of wilderness were quite spectacular, with it becoming more and more rugged as the elevation increased. Numerous tarns, many of which were frozen over, decorated the wild rocky landscape. The only disappointment was, with just 30 minutes of trekking remaining until we reached the summit of the 1,545 metre high Cradle Mountain, our tour guide instructed us to turn around and swiftly make our way back to the bus, for fear of delaying the majority at the bottom who opted against hiking the challenging, but very manageable terrain. Overall though, Cradle Mountain is genuinely one of the most beautiful places I have explored in all of Australia, and given how much extensive travelling I have undertaken in this country, that is not a compliment which should be taken for granted. The area is so vast with countless hidden gems and I left feeling that my stay was far too short and that I could have spent a week there.

Next up was a brief trip to Sheffield, known as the Town of Murals. With the town’s population in dramatic decline in the 1970s, some dedicated residents rescued it from the brink of extinction by borrowing an idea implemented by the small Canadian town of Chemainus, reinvigorating the area, developing a truly unique identity when compared to other Australian towns of similar size, and boosting tourism numbers one hundredfold. Sheffield was reinvented through the painting of numerous murals on walls and buildings scattered throughout the town, each one depicting the area’s rich history and stunning natural beauty, providing a remarkably colourful sight. The town, with a population of less than 1500, now sees over 200,000 visitors a year and hosts the International Mural Fest. Sheffield’s residents deserve massive respect for taking pride in the future and identity of their town and for having the initiative and drive to do something about it. It’s a shame other places, particularly the soulless townships which I frequented recently in North-Western Victoria, don’t have the same interest in following suit.

The final two days of my time in Tasmania were spent on the East Coast. While not nearly as magnificent as its western counterpart, the journey still provided some memorable sights, in spite of the grim overcast skies and relentless rainfall. Firstly, there was a short stop at the Bay of Fires, named as such by Captain Tobias Furneaux in 1773 upon witnessing the fires of Aboriginal people at this very location. The beach is quite picturesque, with hundreds of orange granite rocks comforting the long stretches of bright white sand. Excluding our small tour group, the beach was completely void of human activity, and with the waves crashing furiously against the rocks, outstanding photo opportunities were not in short supply. However, this joy was short lived, with a freak wave catching us all completely off guard, resulting in an undesired soaking from the knees down. The relief felt as I managed to stay on my feet during this surprising outburst of geographical emotion cannot be understated, given that my newly purchased Sony camera, among other things, was residing in my fortunate pockets!

Another highlight of my time on the East of Tasmania was a visit to Freycinet National Park, where I hiked to the secluded beach, Wineglass Bay, its name deriving from its shape, which can be seen clearly from the lookout. Rated as one of the top ten beaches in the world, Wineglass Bay ought to have blown me away, but unfortunately the persistent precipitation and poor visibility meant that I didn’t get to witness this beaut in her prime. Nonetheless, I still found the beach quite stunning, with its remoteness winning me over as much as anything. To get to this beautiful piece of coastline, one is required to hike up a decent sized hill for approximately thirty minutes, followed by a similar length decent to the destination. This expedition was all too overwhelming for two members of my tour group, who instead opted to wait on the bus for over two and a half hours! Why somebody would spend all that hard earned cash to engage in such laziness is beyond me!

While the aforementioned beaches were no doubt impressive, it was a brief taste of Tasmania’s heritage which most interested me. I enjoyed one hour wandering through the streets of Ross, a historic cosy town filled with old sandstone buildings and cottages. Much like Richmond, which I visited on my last trip to Tasmania, this gorgeous town has the feel of rural England about it, and provides a rare glimpse of visible history in Australia. The town is littered with cute buildings from the early 1800s, one of the oldest bridges in Australia still in use, and the centre of the town, the Four Corners of Ross; Temptation (the pub), Recreation (town hall), Salvation (the Catholic Church) and Damnation (the jail, which is now a private residence). Being somebody who adores heritage and culture, I was extremely impressed with the architectural beauty of this town, and in a small way, it made me feel a bit closer to home. I wish more places in Australia, in particular the mainland, preserved its history in such a manner.

The final stop on our tour was at the Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary, an establishment dedicated primarily to the protection of endangered animals. All the usual suspects made an appearance: kangaroos, emus, koalas, and wombats, among others. These were of course pleasant to look at, but when you have seen such iconic creatures on countless occasions in their natural habitat, it becomes difficult to get truly excited about witnessing them “on show”. What this sanctuary did offer however, was a rare glimpse of the famed Tasmanian Devil, the first time I have observed this fascinating mammal in the flesh. This animal exists only in the state which bears its name and is so called because of its disturbing deafening screech resembled the sound of the Devil, in the opinions of the early settlers. They are now listed as critically endangered due to a widespread facial tumour which has decimated its population over the past two decades. The cause of this rampant disease is not fully understood and if a solution is not found soon, then the Island State’s beloved Devil will be consigned to history, following the same cruel fate which the Tasmanian Tiger endured, extinct since the 1920s.

While I enjoyed my short time in Tasmania, I found the tour company, Under Down Under, to be quite second rate, lagging far behind the level of service I have received on my countless trips around Australia with Adventure Tours. A lot of my negative views can be put firmly at the blame of the tour guide, whose name I will refrain from mentioning. I have been involved in many group tours over the past few years and never have I come across a guide with such an evident lack of enthusiasm for her job. She brought with her a level of arrogance, sarcasm and negativity which has no place on a backpacker tour. It really is a pre-requisite to a job in this industry to have a fondness for being around people, but she seemed to get irritated easily by the actions of others and her attitude came across as moody and disinterested. She provided very little factual information on the sites we were visiting, with the exception of the occasional piece of trivia, and made very little effort to help the group engage with each other. To make matters worse, on one particular morning, two hours after leaving Launceston, a Chinese girl made the startling discovery that she was supposed to actually be leaving the tour and boarding a bus to Hobart that morning and should never have boarded the bus to begin with.. While the remarkable stupidity that my fellow tourist displayed cannot be overlooked, the tour guide should have realised that there was one sleepy tourist too many sitting on the automobile. Upon realising her error, she proceeded to turn swiftly around to drop her back to Launceston, thus consigning the rest of the group to 3 hours of precious daylight wasted on the bus. Not even a hint of an apology was uttered by our disorganised group leader afterwards.

Notwithstanding the above disappointment, and a pretty boring group of fellow travellers to accompany me, I enjoyed my time in Tasmania immensely, simply because of the picturesque places I had the great pleasure of witnessing. The landscape is quite stunning in areas and I would highly recommend a traveller to take a short detour to Tasmania, a place small in size, but big in character, and too often overlooked.