Bowen > Cairns
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
We've done the Bowen to Townsville bit so often this year that there's practically nothing that would surprise us apart from a major spanner inserted forcefully into the works.
For a brief moment, it looked like that had happened. We got to the roundabout near Maidavale School and found the road we wanted to follow restricted to residential and roadworks traffic.
Earlier we'd gone through the packing process, much to the concern of three furry felines who weren't sure what was going on but wanted admission to their daytime quarters in The Extension.
A regular cause for concern came into play with a question about the fridge. That could have raised feline issues if they hadn't decided we were persona non grata for the time being.
Where they'd got to was uncertain, but we were on the road by eight-fifteen with a rendezvous with the Ukulele Lady scheduled for around six. That meant we were able to take our time along the way.
Road closed at Maidavale might have prompted a retracing of the steps if we hadn't been using the iPad to find the shortcut to bypass Ayr and Brandon a while back.
It had been twenty years since I'd been that way. Our first attempt to track that way ended with great confusion that took us on a massive dogleg that came out at the servo near the Burdekin Bridge.
I'd done a bit of subsequent research, had nutted out the route in the opposite direction and, in the process, established that one arm of the four that lead off the roundabout heads straight to Brandon.
So that was where we found ourselves rejoining the Bruce Highway.
The run to and through Townsville was uneventful. A stop at the Frosty Mango north of Rollingstone provided a break, and we were in Cardwell for lunch.
The only significant interest came when Madam decided she wanted a shot of the Cardwell Jetty and was prevented from crossing the highway by a steady stream of traffic in both directions.
Smartarse Hughesy was on the point of suggesting I'd head back into the cafe for another round of crab sangas when the break in the flow came, but the fact that I hadn't made the remark didn't mean I escaped the consequences of the thought.
Madam had decided we were refuelling there, and I sat in a hot car as the fuel dribbled into the tank seemingly drop by agonising drop.
The payment process was equally glacial, while the temperature in the parked vehicle rose. Still, I can afford to sweat off a bit of the old avoirdupois.
Back on the highway, we ran in through Tully, Innisfail, Babinda and Gordonvale through threatening cloud cover, and had a minor hiccough when faced with a choice of routes into the Cairns CBD.
I chose the one that would have better traffic flow, but it was a case of varying mileage and dissenting opinions when we arrived at the destination just after four-fifteen.
After checking in, shifting gear, surveying the surroundings, assessing things in general and an hour and a half's rest we were off to put the car to bed just after six.
About half an hour later, we were back, dropped off by a Car Carer on her way to ukulele practice.
There was never much doubt about where we were headed for dinner since the Cairns operation of the Roma Trattoria probably had Spaghetti alla Scoglio on the menu.
They did, so that was it, the judge's opinion was final, and there was no correspondence to be entered into.
There was, however, discussion over the wine to accompany the heaping plate of seafood and spaghetti that was on its way.
There were half a dozen by the glass offerings I would have been happy to go for, and we ended up with an unwooded Chardonnay and a King Valley Pinot Grigio. Both were quite tasty though the Chardonnay finished about half a length ahead of the Grigio.
No prizes for guessing who ended up with the Grigio.
Before the arrival of the platter itself, a helpful server delivered a pair of finger bowls and another pair of receptacles for shells and other detritus. Then a more practical colleague decided two of each was slightly over the top and halved the allocation.
As it turned out, we could have used another finger bowl, but that was the only possible subject for gripes.
On the way back to the Cairns Plaza Madam reckoned what we'd just had almost matched her first encounter with the dish in their Carlton operation.
I'd had a risotto that time, but we'd had another go on a return visit in Carlton and another on a third visit four and a half years ago. I was inclined to agree that this one was the best of the last three.
Back at base, I wandered into the bar downstairs for a cleansing ale before the regulation tapping out of Travelogues. I had about two-thirds of the Prelude completed by the time I decided to call it a night around nine-fifteen.
Cairns > Kōbe
Thursday, 25 October 2012
Getting a good night's sleep before a significant excursion isn't as easy as you might think.
I was awake, if the old memory serves me well, at one-thirty and three, but dozed back off both times. Eventually, I emerged from a dream where the cast included High School acquaintances, degenerate cricketers and an Elvis Costello concert.
That was around five-thirty.
But I slept better than Madam, who ascribed inability to get a good night's sleep to a combination of factors you can probably figure out without being told.
Given the number of things that could go wrong over the next three weeks you'll probably be running over the possibilities, and that sort of thing isn't exactly conducive to deep and undisturbed slumber.
In any case, once I was awake, I was back on the Travelogue and had the Prelude mostly knocked over before the pre-breakfast shower.
There had been some consideration of a walk to find breakfast, but intermittent drizzle put paid to that theory. We headed down for a Spanish omelette (Hughesy) and a bowl of fruit (Madam) before we completed the packing and the regulation reshuffle of bits and pieces.
The Ukulele Lady had kindly offered to drop us at the airport (she was working somewhere over in that direction, so it was more or less on her way). We were downstairs around half an hour before the time she'd indicated on the off chance she might be running early.
We didn't want to be keeping anyone waiting, did we?
Check-in and departing the country procedures ran smoothly, producing a state of illusory well-being that was disrupted by an announcement half an hour before we were scheduled to begin boarding.
Technical issues were going to delay boarding by an hour. While I wasn't happy about the delay, I'd prefer them to find things that were likely to go wrong before takeoff.
In any case, with things up to date almost right on the original boarding time, it was a case of thumb-twiddling with the iPad battery around 83% as the iPod took over the workload.
There was one significant departure from revealed form this time around.
Faced with the prospect of an early morning arrival back in Cairns, Madam thought it might be worth investigating the cost involved and the extra benefits obtained in Business Class.
The original motivation was more legroom and the chance of a better night's sleep.
An extra ten-kilogram luggage allowance is a significant factor for someone looking to bring odds and ends she can't buy in Australia back with her.
We were, by the way, entitled to sixty kilograms of luggage on the way over. So the fact that the scales registered thirty-five in Cairns probably means someone's credit card will be reeling by the time we make our way back.
I'd heard rumours of better quality food and drink in Business Class as well.
Not that I was expecting anything spectacular in the Jetstar version thereof, but you never know, do you?
When the boarding call came around an hour late, we were the first through the Business queue.
That gave us plenty of time to acquaint ourselves with the extras, which started with the zipper bag of goodies and the blanket to keep you warm en route.
The offer of a glass of bubbles to start before we started moving was an excellent start, particularly when the glass of bubbles I started lunch with seemed familiar.
Fine, but there was better to come when the menu arrived, along with the wine list.
The bean curd appetiser, with marinated Japanese leek and dressing, didn't quite sound like my scene, but a glass of Jansz Premium Non-Vintage Rose bubbles seemed like an excellent way to take the edge off the tofu.
Given the rest of the lineup the Tinpot Hut 2011 Sauvignon Blanc is probably a classy drop, but take a look at what followed it on the list. Stella Bella 2009 Chardonnay, Innocent Bystander 2010 Syrah and Cape Mentelle Cabernet Merlot? Count me in.
So the entree, a choice of Chicken rikyu-yaki or Beef ginger teriyaki for the main and a chance of a bit of cheese for afters, along with very decent wine? No problems.
As it turned out, of course, airline catering is airline catering.
The food was about what you'd expect under the circumstances, but the glass of Jansz Sparkling Rose seemed suspiciously similar to something I'd tried not that long before.
Madam had gone for the Stella Bella Chardonnay and ended up with a glass of seriously good new style Oz Chardy, which was impressive. When the flight attendant delivered a glass of Innocent Bystander Syrah, I wasn't quite in seventh heaven, but I was a very happy camper.
If we'd been sitting further back, we'd have had a choice of an SSB or a Shiraz from an offshoot of the McGuigan dynasty. On the other hand, here we were with a selection of wine you'd expect to pay around $10/glass in a restaurant. On that basis, Business Class has got me.
The point behind all this is that on your average budget airline Economy starts with a price and you start adding on extras like luggage, meals, drinks and blankets.
The Economy wine options had kicked in at $7/airline serve bottle. The Business glasses were slightly smaller than that, but you'd have been looking at $14 for the alcoholic equivalent of what arrived gratis on Business.
On the other hand, you can start by looking at the business price and start counting the things that'd cost you. Around $20 worth of wine by the glass is a bonus on top of extra legroom, increased baggage allowance and the fact that down the back you're paying for the meal.
There's still a differential, but if you look at it that way it diminishes.
Of course, it helps to have picked up the seats on sale, but every little bit helps.
With lunch done and dusted a predictable torpor descended over the area as we settled in for the long haul without much to look forward to in the way of scenery et cetera.
I'd noted green jungle below us during lunch, and guessed we were over the Owen Stanley Range. There was a highly distinctive river system that brought the name Markham to mind. That was something that needed to be confirmed. A check on Google Earth and the National Geographic Atlas app failed to deliver a definitive answer, but for the next couple of hours, it was a case of a semi-dose with something quietish on the iPod.
Madam took advantage of the offered iPad to watch Madagascar 3, which filled in the time rather nicely. In terms of battery usage, I'd have been better off doing something similar.
As the snob in me sniffily dismissed the audio, visual and reading options available on their iPad, I tapped away on mine. That ran down a battery that was severely depleted by continuing to read the Neil Young autobiography.
When they roused us with two hours to go, I sampled the Cape Mentelle Cabernet Merlot, declining an offer of more solid sustenance. That looked likely to be something of the noodle in a cup or packaged snack persuasion, so it was no great sacrifice. I was looking forward to the chance to watch the passing light show once we made landfall.
Last time that had been somewhere around Kyushu or the southern end of Shikoku. There had been a run along the coast with the Seto Inland Sea below us, and I figured on a steady flow of lit-up conurbations along the way.
But we were following a different flight path this time, and the lack of precise geographic awareness in the darkness threw me.
Looking at it in the cold clear light of reality I can see that we must have made landfall around the eastern end of Shikoku, probably around Tokushima. Wherever it was, I managed to confuse it with the Kōbe-Osaka conurbation around the time the final landing instructions came over the P.A. System.
They're leaving that remarkably late, I thought, under the impression we were on our final approach.
In reality, we were still somewhere around two to three thousand metres up. The lights on my left represented a relatively large urban and industrial centre. It looked reasonably close but was probably twenty kilometres away.
Still, even if I didn't know where we were the lights gave something to occupy the attention after we were told to turn off all electronic devices.
Once we'd landed, there was a lengthy around the terminal building before we reached the designated air bridge, where another of the benefits of business came into play.
I'd stashed everything I didn't need except for the iPad and whatever I could fit in my pockets in the backpack. That had been stowed in the overhead locker, so once the seat belt sign went off, and Madam moved into the aisle retrieving it was easy.
When the doors opened, we were in among the first to disembark, which brought us to the first door on the shuttle that carries you towards the Arrivals processing area.
Moving swiftly, Madam and I had hit the lead of the pack through the temperature check.
I arrived at the Foreigners section of Immigration (there was a bevy of her compatriots following Madam to the Japanese passport section) to find there wasn't a queue at all.
Hand over passport and paperwork, place the index fingers on the fingerprint machine, get the facial recognition bit done, and I was through. That mightn't have actually taken an hour last time around but certainly felt like it.
The process this time around needed less time than I took to type that last paragraph.
Things didn't go quite so smoothly in the Baggage Claim area since the baggage handling process doesn't seem to be class conscious. But once we'd done the retrieval and whisked our way through Customs, we were on the lookout for the shuttle bus and looking pretty good.
I'm not sure exactly what happened, but having been directed to the stop (#6 if I recall correctly), I joined the queue with the bags. Madam headed off to get the tickets from the relevant machine.
We'd checked our bags, the bus had arrived, and the driver refused to accept what we wanted to hand over.
Instead of two tickets and two receipts from the machine we had one ticket, the requisite number of receipts, and a driver who wanted actuals rather than apparent evidence.
Some flustered to-ing and fro-ing ended up costing an extra ¥2000. But we ended up on the bus at 8:35, a better result than we'd expected when we heard about flight delays back in Cairns.
Last time around I'd made a mental note to sit on the right-hand side of the bus because it seemed the view of the city lights was better on that side.
This time, Madam's attempts to figure out what had gone wrong proved a significant distraction, and I didn't see a lit-up Osaka Castle this time either.
The run along the freeway from the airport to Kōbe takes an hour, and we were in time to catch the 9:50 shuttle to the Okura and Meriken Park Oriental Hotels
Last time around we'd started at the Oriental, but this time it was the Okura for the first two nights.
Checking in proceeded with the regular courtesies and rituals.
A bellhop who was nowhere near as over the top as the Harry Houdini clone at the Oriental last time around conducted us to the twenty-fifth floor, and that was that.
Kōbe
Friday, 26 October 2012
Late nights often result in late mornings, but there was plenty on the agenda on Admin and Organizing Day. So despite effective blackout curtains, we were up reasonably early after a late night at the end of a longish and eventful day.
Still, it was after eight when we stepped into the elevator on the way to reacquaint Hughesy with the slightly strange but very civilised custom of the Breakfast Viking.
We were off, in other words, for a smorgasbord breakfast.
The day's agenda included:
converting the Rail Pass purchased in Australia into an actual usable document,
buying tickets for the first few days' rail travel and anything else Madam thought might be booked out,
chasing up computer-specific reading glasses with a focal length of 85 centimetres for Hughesy,
transferring the clothing and other items Madam was going to need for the rail pass leg from her (blue) suitcase to my black one (The Black Monster), and
stashing everything else into the other one, which was going to be spending the next couple of weeks with The Mother.
That took neck cushions, airline blankets, changes of clothes for the return leg and other odds and ends out of the we're going to have to lug all this around the countryside for three weeks equation.
Downstairs at the Viking, I was tucking into a freshly made (as opposed to here's one we made a little earlier) omelette when I had a momentary vision. It involved the inimitable Frockster and his likely reaction to the scene before me.
There was the regulation number of efficient and courteous hospitality workers showing guests to seats, clearing tables, delivering tea and coffee. A couple of people were there to supervise, ensuring everything was being done just right.
The guests were quietly going about their breakfasts, and the whole scene had a barely audible hum of activity. I figured you'd be able to hear The Frockster before he came through the door.
He'd be demanding a table next to Hughesy and the Kōbe Carnation and riffing off a variation of the theme that prevented us seeing Mount Fuji last time around.
Then, I figured, he'd sight the breakfast options.
I'm not suggesting the man has steak and eggs for breakfast, or sausages, or some specific form of cereal. But the first thing he'd have noticed was an absolute lack of anything resembling Corn Flakes or Coco Pops.
The eye would have run along a perfectly adequate continental breakfast buffet. They would have noted the standard varieties of fruit juice and the varied selection of pastries but would have pulled up short where you might expect to find the cereal.
Instead, he'd have sighted a variety of very Japanese breakfast options, none of which Hughesy is familiar with because of what lies on the other side of the open space.
There are two alcoves over that way. The first was a variation on the salad bar, with an array of leaves, cherry tomatoes, fruits and melons and other, slightly intriguing items.
A tasty variation on a peperonata probably explained the grated Parmesan cheese.
A couple of salad dressings would tend to explain the croutons.
I mean, if you're going to have something approximating a Caesar salad you're going to need croutons, n'est ce pas?
The other alcove delivered variations on bacon and eggs, with a chef on hand to do you an omelette on the spot in a non-stick pan. Another was doing what looked like perfectly done fried eggs without any hint of frizzle around the edges.
I wasn't 100% sold on the sausages, but a fresh omelette, bacon and a few other bits and pieces and a croissant or two made up a solid first go at breakfast.
I ventured back for seconds from the salad bar and a bit more from the pastry department.
Expecting a fair bit of walking, I reckoned I'd need the carbohydrates.
Back upstairs we finished sorting things out and caught the 9:55 shuttle into Sannomiya. That got us to the city's transport hub around five minutes later.
After diverting to investigate replacement options for watch batteries, we headed off to a Japan Rail booking office for what was probably the most crucial part of the whole trip.
I've been referring to a voucher, but the J.R. information booklet calls it an Exchange Order. You need to have bought the little devil before you land in the country.
You lob at the J.R. Office with your Exchange Order and your passport and fill out the form you get at the office. Then, after some peel, paste and laminate action, you have the document that will look after the majority of your ticket purchases.
It won't get you on to the fastest Shinkansen services, and the Pass doesn't work on non-JR lines, but it does cover some bus and ferry services.
Once you've accomplished the exchange, the fun begins.
Given the nature of the beast, you'll probably be in a booking office with a queue of people looking for tickets. On that basis, you're better off buying your tickets over a couple of sessions rather than in one fell swoop.
So you get the tickets you absolutely must have first.
If there's no one waiting you go for more.
If it looks like you're holding up the queue, you head off to do something else. It's easy enough to come back for another go, or find yourself another quiet office and proceed from there.
We were looking at a leg from Kōbe to Kitakami with lunch in Tokyo the next day, so we needed those tickets for a start.
Having got that batch, we set off for the optometrist for a pair of computer-specific reading glasses and stopped in at another J.R. booking office and filled in the ticketing for another couple of stages.
Once the glasses had been dealt with, we noted there was no one in that J.R. office, so we headed back in for another go.
That might seem like an excessively cautious approach until you consider the process involved.
Lob up and say you want to go from here to there on Thursday, and it's a lengthier process because there'll be several options.
Madam's very detailed pre-trip research meant we knew when we wanted to leave most places, and we had the connections along the way nutted out.
So you start by telling the person you're dealing with what you want and when you want to go.
The operator fills out a requisition form, and when you've finished requesting, they start processing the requests. That involves some fairly substantial touch screen action and the odd point of clarification.
The process eventually delivers printed tickets, which are checked against the requisition form and then checked with the purchaser to make sure you're getting exactly what you re.
So it's a slow process, and requests for the tickets you'll need to cover a fourteen-day pass could occupy one particular operative for a fair chunk of a morning.
That's a significant consideration when you're tying up one of three operators while a queue has formed. That's why you start with the most important and gradually work your way through the rest.
In any case, with the most pressing ticket issues dealt with, we headed back to the Okura.
There was the odd issue to be dealt with en route, and we wandered upstairs to collect the Blue suitcase just in time for Madam to miss the 1:55 shuttle.
The miss was primarily made possible by refusal to accept Hughesy's logic. The hotel was over there. There's a road in front of the hotel. This ramp looks like it runs down to that road.
It turned out I was right on all counts. But we completed a circuit around the Kōbe Maritime Museum and ended up gaining access by the route I'd suggested was there all along.
In any case, there was another bus twenty minutes later.
I'd get in the way en route to Myodani, so I remained in the Okura. Three days' Travelogue was more or less complete about two hours before we were due to head off to rendezvous with one of Madam's old school friends over dinner.
With the writing up to date, I decided to follow suggestions and repair to the lobby overlooking the Japanese garden behind the building and settle back into reading Neil Young.
I'd been happy upstairs, tapping away and listening to Toumani Diabate and Bert Jansch. That wasn't an option downstairs, but I thought I'd be spotted when Madam returned.
It was her suggestion, and I didn't want to be a philistine, did I?
As it turned out, someone sailed through the lobby while I wasn't looking, and failed to notice I was there. She had a minor panic attack when the realisation struck but didn't exactly rush down to ensure things were OK, and I hadn't been abducted by strange females (or something).
We were due to rendezvous at Motomachi Station, which is equidistant from the Okura and Sannomiya. So we eschewed the shuttle and walked around the edges of the Old Foreign Settlement and Chinatown (Nanking-Nachi) before making the rendezvous slightly ahead of time.
From there, we crossed the road to a Korean eatery at the bottom of a rather steep set of stairs.
There was nothing I could see advertising the place, no prominent display board with the menu options, and no one spruiking what's on offer downstairs.
But when you're that small (it wouldn't hold much more than thirty diners) and that good you probably don't need the shill.
Mind you, there was probably some form of signage outside that I failed to notice.
Dinner came in a variety of small serves in a variety of styles, including some steamed chicken with kimchi that I wasn't expected to like, but did, barbecued beef, and a seafood omelette.
There were enough of them to cover the middle of a small table with help yourself bowls in front of each diner.
As the two old school friends chatted away in Japanese and the dishes kept coming, I did my best to clear space on the table so everyone could reach things more easily.
One thing I wasn't particularly eager to reach had arrived with an I'll tell you what it is later. That is the proverbial dead set give away in the probably oh yuck department.
Whatever it was turned out to be chewy, not particularly interesting, and not much to my taste. Subsequent inquiries as to the identity received a single word response.
Guts.
There was a bed of noodles as well, which was more to my liking, and I pecked at it intermittently.
Interestingly, no one else seemed concerned to finish I'll tell you what it is later off.
A suggestion to this effect will produce a denial, but I suspect there's a bit of the old let's see what the foreigner reckons about this one operating here. The situation seemed to be remarkably similar to two exposures to the surprisingly crunchy jellyfish last time around.
There wasn't any hint of a wine list, but Korean goes better with beer. So I managed to knock over (figuratively, of course) several pitchers while we made our way through the platters.
It wasn't all that late when we wandered back through Motomachi, guided by Old School Friend, who'd parked very close to the Okura.
Madam suspects the deals they're offering at the Okura and Meriken Park Oriental are related to an inconvenient location.
If you know where you're going, are willing to walk, Motomachi is only a hop, skip and a jump from the Okura.
Cross the road at the zebra crossing, through the car park and over the pedestrian bridge, and you're a bit over a stone's throw from Motomachi, and with shuttle buses to Sannomiya for most of the day and well into the evening isolation is a relative thing.
Still, if they're going to offer deals like the one we were enjoying we'd be mugs to knock them back. We'd picked up an excellent deal (two nights with Viking breakfast for ¥23000. That represented remarkably good value when you work on Madam's conversion rate of ¥100 to the Aussie Dollar.
It's still pretty good value when you do the sums at the actual conversion rate operating on the day concerned.
By comparison, I'm looking at $229 as the base rate for my preferred accommodation option when I head to catch an Elvis Costello concert in Sydney early next year.
Back at the Okura we finished most of the preparations for Travel Day One and clambered into the cot just after eleven, looking forward to whatever the morrow might bring.