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.

Grampians, Mildura & Mungo National Park, Australia

Since I last updated this blog I haven’t engaged in a lot of travel. After a great four weeks at home and in London for the Olympics I arrived back in Melbourne with just four months remaining on my second working holiday visa. However, I managed to find sponsorship off an employer allowing me to remain in Australia for longer. The majority of the last 8 months have therefore been dominated by work, study, athletics training and general socialising which isn’t really travel blog worthy. However during this time I have managed to squeeze a couple of memorable trips in, thanks largely to two cousins from Ireland visiting Melbourne: one for two months, and the other, his brother, joining us for two weeks over Christmas.

First up was a 2 day visit to the Grampians National Park in mid-November 2012. This wasn’t my first time exploring this stunning West Victorian mountain range however. Back in February 2011 myself and a friend took a trip there as part of a 3 day tour incorporating the Great Ocean Road. However, thanks to the devastating floods a month earlier, the vast majority of the National Park was closed to the public. This was incredibly disappointing and it left me with a feeling of unfinished business.

So with two gloriously sunny days forecasted my cousin and I rented a car and travelled a total of 800km from start to finish, covering the national park from head to tail. We stayed overnight in a cosy hostel in the quaint town of Halls Gap, situated on the foothills of the mountain range, providing a perfect base to explore everything the Grampians has to offer.

The trip got off to the best possible start when on the long drive to Halls Gap we encountered a grey kangaroo on a quiet paved back road. No doubt caught off guard and completely out of its depth with regards to intellectual thinking, it simply could not find a productive solution to this problem. So rather than escape into a field to safety from the perceived danger of two snap happy Irishmen, it instead panicked and just bounced along the road in front of us for a solid five minutes giving these delighted tourists a first-hand view of stereotypical Australia. You just can’t beat it!

Day 1 took us to all the best known tourist attractions, the areas I was denied the pleasure of seeing on my previous visit. We took a challenging hike through the picturesque Grand Canyon up to the renowned Pinnacle lookout which provides panoramic views of the entire region from a leg weakening height. Another memorable walk was the hike down numerous steps to McKenzie Falls. Since visiting the jaw dropping Iguassu Falls on the Argentine/ Brazil border in late 2010 I have never looked at waterfalls the same way since, but nevertheless I was impressed with the sheer force of McKenzie and in particular it’s cosy location buried deep in the forest of the mountain range. Other beautiful viewing spots we took in were the Boroka Lookout, Reed Lookout and the Balconies, formerly known as Jaws of Death due to a rock formation resembling the mouth of a ravenous shark. I’m not sure why the name was changed but like everything else these days, my guess would be that the original title wasn’t PC enough for this overly sensitive world! The Balconies provided a stunning sunset to cap off an exhausting day of bushwalking and hiking. The random discovery of an Indian restaurant in the tiny village of Halls Gap, much to the delight of my cousin who just would not give up looking until he found one, followed by numerous beers was much warranted.

Day 2 however provided the undoubted highlight of the trip. While the sites from the first day were quite stunning, all of the roads we travelled on were paved (or made of bitumen as my cousin likes to say) and there were plenty of other tourists around. The second day took us out into the remote part of the Grampians, the feeling of being in “real” Australia. We took the unpaved Mt Zero Road which brought us all the way from Halls Gap up to the most serene and picturesque part of the entire national park, right at the very north where three beautiful mountains stand tall: Mt Stapleton, Mt Zero and Hollow Mountain. In the process we painted our roomy automobile a nice sandy colour. No sympathy for the Hertz cleaning staff though. It’s pretty impossible to properly explore Australia without getting your hands dirty!

Of the aforementioned mountains we opted to take the hike to the top of Mt Stapleton. I know I praise a lot of things that I see but this hike was among the most enjoyable and refreshing I have ever undertaken. Unlike other hikes, this one was not particularly well marked, with not a lot of trail and very little tourists. We got lost a few times but that only added to the fun of it all. My cousin has hiked the highest mountains in Africa, South America and Europe so this can in no way be considered difficult in the grand scheme of things, and somebody of reasonable fitness levels should have no problem negotiating this rough and at times semi-steep terrain. It does nonetheless provide a challenge worthy of making the views at the top feel that much more satisfying and worthwhile. I genuinely would consider the Mt Zero Road drive and the Mt Stapleton hike to be at the top of my list of places I have seen in Victoria, and such a statement does not get thrown around without serious consideration.

Just before Christmas, with the second of my cousins having landed in Melbourne all bright eyed and bushy tailed, we didn’t waste much time before setting off on the long 700km journey from Melbourne to the city of Mildura, located on the Murray River, the natural border between the states of Victoria and New South Wales. This would be our base for three nights allowing us to scope out the surrounding areas.

The first thing I noticed about Mildura was the roughness of the place. Granted we arrived at the worst possible time, just before midnight on a Friday evening, but upon parking our car before checking into our hotel we were greeted by a flock of scumbags sitting outside a neighbouring bar. No threatening behaviour but certainly not the most accommodating at the same time. The three of us unanimously agreed that this was not an establishment where we wanted to enjoy our Friday night beverages so we set off down the town in search of a more respectable drinking habitat. Alas, our efforts were to be in vein. Everywhere else was either closed or filled with even more regrettable clientele. All I wanted was a quiet pint in a cosy corner pub, with the possible, though not necessary, packet of crisps to accompany it. In a forlorn effort to find such an institution, I inquired off a few puzzled police officers for recommendations. They pointed us right back to where we started!

Mildura by day operated to a more respectable level, with many restaurants of surprising cultural variety available along a small strip in the town centre. Needless to say we made the obligatory trip to the local Indian eatery to satisfy my cousin’s daily vindaloo requirement! However Mildura, like most Victorian regional cities is remarkably uninspiring. Firstly the town is laid out in perfectly square blocks, which may be logical and efficient, but deprives the place of any sort of soul and does nothing to make it look any less generic than the rest of the Victorian country towns I have visited, with the notable exception of Bendigo. They all look like complete replicas of each other with the same boring layout and same ugly mass-produced architecture. There is very little difference between Mildura, Wangaratta, Benella and Shepparton. Miles apart in distance, but remarkably close in their respective abilities to excite tourists!

However, it’s the country villages in the North-Western region of Victoria which are the most disappointing. We passed a lot of small places throughout our three day trip and they were all as dull and morbid as each other. When I think of country villages I cast my mind to charismatic local communities in Ireland, the beautiful thatched cottage settlements of England or the narrow and windy cobblestoned paradises of Italy and France. Most villages in this part of Victoria have nothing of interest. Much like the towns they all look the exact same: places lacking in any evidence of life, soul, culture or heart, built around one straight wide road with constructions so hideous that some of the world’s biggest cities would be impressed! There was not one village we passed that did not possess a dilapidated old mill like structure. It truly was a ghastly sight. It’s quite ironic that the country with one of the most beautiful landscapes on offer possesses some of the ugliest architecture. In addition the culinary experiences one acquires in these forgettable townships are among the worst one could find. There must be some form of local requirement for each menu item to be soaked in, at the very minimum, 50 grams of saturated fat! Australia has one of the highest obesity rates in the world, something which is particularly prevalent in rural Victoria and after witnessing the inedible heart-attack-on-a-plate dining experiences on offer it is little wonder why! This is most certainly not Australia at its finest. 

During our two full days in the Mildura region we braved barbaric temperatures which peaked at an energy sapping 42 degrees Celsius on the second day. There really is not a lot one can do in such extreme conditions so we spent that day in the car driving aimlessly through the Victorian outback. It was a fascinating journey. Firstly the Victorian outback doesn’t share a similar appearance to the well photographed outback of the Red Centre and Western Australia. I was quite surprised to see that the region contained a lot of meadows, albeit well and truly yellow due to virtually no precipitation, with very little of the rough dirt and spinifex which is a common feature of much of the nation. Being honest I didn’t find this alternative outback anywhere near as picturesque but it was interesting to see nonetheless.

We drove to the South Australian state border for no other reason but to say we did so and to get a cheesy touristy photo beside the road sign. However our joy was short lived. No sooner had we parked the vehicle and entered the unforgiving sunshine, when an army of flies attacked us from all angles. They seemed to have quite a fetish for my eyeballs of all places. It was a very distressing experience, which took all enjoyment out of the not so remarkable state border. Unlike flies in most countries, which tend to migrate elsewhere when not welcome, the Australian breed of these useless creatures will keep at you until they get their way. They simply do not take no for an answer. We lasted about 75 seconds before giving up and stepping back into the car.

Another interesting aspect of this journey was the amount of places we encountered which were loud and proud on the road atlas, yet silent and not very violent in reality. Only in Australia does an isolated mill, a crossroads, or a gate make it onto a map with a placename and a big black dot beside it indicating something a bit more mentally stimulating. However it is a rather big land with not a lot of towns to fill it with so you can’t really blame the Ordinance Survey guys for getting a little distracted!

The main reason for our trip to Mildura however was to discover the nearby Mungo National Park located 100km from the city, over the border in the state of New South Wales. The three of us are all passionate and experienced outback explorers at this stage so it was unanimously agreed that any trip out of Melbourne had to touch on this theme. Initially we considered negotiating the national park and it’s unsealed roads ourselves, but with excessive temperatures forecasted and the reality dawning on us that we would need to bring everything but the kitchen sink along in case of an emergency, we thought better of the notion of traipsing out into the wilderness by ourselves and opted to take the easy option with a local tour operator named Harry Nanya Tours, run by a traditional Paakantyi aboriginal named Graham Clarke.

Mungo National Park is part of the Willandra Lakes which was inscribed onto the UNESCO World Heritage list in 1981 for being the site of one of the oldest places of human life on earth with evidence dating back 60,000 years. Remains of the bodies of “Mungo Man” and “Mungo Lady” were discovered here making Lake Mungo an extremely significant archaeological site. The lakes these days are completely bone dry and have been so for 18,000 years. Unless you are told where Lake Mungo is then it can be hard to identify it from the rest of the barren landscape, which resembled more closely the type of Outback that I had come to see, full of dirt, dust, spinifex and other rough vegetation. Now THIS is Australia!

After taking some time to enjoy the views over the lake our tour guide proceeded to give our group of five an insight into aboriginal life, the problems facing his people and his very passionate opinions on all sorts of topics which were very interesting, if not a bit unrelated to Mungo National Park at times. Throughout the tour he stopped on countless occasions to tell some aboriginal dreamtime stories and in general just talk about the natural world that we live in. This was a man who had a lot of big opinions and wasn’t shy in expressing them. He was a fascinating character and I was very impressed with his level of intellect. It just goes to show that one shouldn’t stereotype races of people.

We spent some time exploring the visitor centre and a no longer used sheep shearing shed (the later which provided some nice photo opportunities) before heading on to the main course of the trip, the Walls of China for sunset. This focal point of the national park is made up of a series of sand dunes stretching for 30km along the south eastern side of Lake Mungo. Being owned by the local aboriginal people the Walls of China are off limits for tourists unless one is part of a guided tour. This restriction meant we had this entire wonderful natural landmark to ourselves. The place really is a photographers dream. You could spend hours out there taking photos of each of the thousands of sand filled lunettes, from multiple angles. This area is so incredibly remote. It is quite an invigorating feeling standing on such an unheralded  natural wonder with not a single bit of human life anywhere in sight (apart from the rest of the tour group of course!). This IS Australia at its finest!

However, the most fascinating and entertaining part of the entire tour centred on a hotel located in Mungo National Park. At the start of the tour we stopped at the premises to pick up a German couple who were staying there. I didn’t think too much about the place at the time, but noticed it to be rather empty. A quick look at the extortionate prices on the restaurant menu gave a good indication as to the reasons for this. The man sitting at reception, a Frenchman named Jacques, was acting very strange and didn’t seem too pleased when I asked could I use the hotel bathroom, almost as if he had something to hide. On the journey back to Mildura our tour guide provided us the full uncensored history surrounding the hotel. My face was genuinely numb from laughter. This is a story that makes Basil Fawlty appear competent in comparison.

Originally the hotel was a 2 star budget accommodation with Aboriginal bush tucker (Aussie slang for food) meals, campfire drinking and sing-a-longs apart of the whole vibe of the place. Tourists flocked in their droves and the place achieved great business. The local aboriginals came from far and wide to enjoy a few beverages and the paying customers loved interacting with them. This was a real Aussie bush experience and a financial success. Tried and trusted.

Then a bunch of wealthy bored businessmen in Sydney acquired the hotel and turned it into a 5 star luxury resort. The bush tucker was scraped and was replaced by an extraordinarily expensive French restaurant. Alarm bells immediately. If somebody wants French cuisine then a trip to errr…. France would be the most appropriate solution. I can’t possibly think why somebody travelling out to the back of beyond in Australia to see kangaroos and outback landscapes would be interested in overpriced pot-au-feu or boudin blanc. The extortionate prices meant that the hotel was unsurprisingly attracting very few customers, with that German couple being the first people to temporarily reside there for a few weeks!

To make matters worse these clueless entrepreneurs hired a gentleman from France by the name of Jacques (which our tour guide kept pronouncing as Jacks!) to manage the hotel. This man moved from London to one of the most isolated places on Earth to take up this role, a level of sanity which deserves questioning. He was given a very cushy contract with none of his salary attached to performance. As a result he has no incentive to get customers in the door. He doesn’t earn more if the place is busy so he does not want a full establishment. It is in his best interests to push people away as it means less work for himself. The man has a level of job security that not even Alex Ferguson enjoys. The result of this is one very rude manager who spends most of his day sitting around watching TV!

The above mentioned man has also changed the entire vibe of the place and does not welcome the drinking and good natured fun which used to be a strong part of the establishment. He is therefore now hated among the local farmers and aboriginal people and has been known to turn off the electricity if things get too loud after the 10pm curfew. Who needs Manuel when you have Jacques?!

After the takeover the owners mounted some sort of gas related contraption onto the back of the hotel. Only afterwards did they realise that such an installation was against what was permitted in a UNESCO protected area. The grave result was the expenditure of a small fortune to replace this with something more solar based and the hotel is losing something in the range of six figures a year to keep it running. The result of all of this is a business which is running at an astonishingly high net loss, a failure of epic proportions. But the owners won’t pull the plug and feel that success is just around the corner and are continuing on in blind faith. Our tour guide who is very highly regarded in the Australian tourist industry has tried to talk sense into them but they won’t listen. Whoever gave the rubber stamp to this whole proposal to start with is somebody who could do with watching a few episodes of Dragon’s Den but it did result in a hysterical story to pass the time on the trip back to Mildura so we were very thankful for his stupidity.

Since Christmas I haven’t managed to get away anywhere to explore. However I have my eyes on a trip to Canberra, the nation’s capital, in July followed by a big 10 day trip to Moscow for the World Athletics Championships in August. I haven’t been out of Australia in almost a year so I may as well do it in style with a vodka overlooking the Kremlin. I will make sure to document all the crazy happenings.