Over the waves to Rotto
We'd wangled a considerable saving on the train journey because of the 40th anniversary celebrations, but the reduced fare came with a couple of riders.
One was the need to book two nights' accommodation, which accounted for the booking at the Travelodge (at a rate, incidentally, we would've avoided under other circumstances) and the second was the need to book one of three tours on offer.
One was a wine tasting tour to Margaret River, but our plans included a couple of days there rather than a one-day bus trip. The second was an excursion to Wave Rock, which Madam had visited previously and been underwhelmed by, so the third option was always going to start a short priced favourite.
A visit to Rottnest Island is probably one of those things listed as a must do when visiting W.A. but given the time frame we were working in we'd probably have given it a miss if it hadn't been the third tour option. But the others were non-goers, so we'd gone to bed the previous evening with the knowledge the courtesy bus would be waiting at the front door at 8:20.
We went very close to missing it, having slept in due to a combination of a king size bed that proved a remarkably good sleeping surface, general weariness after the train trip, where we'd slept adequately rather than well, effective curtains on the windows with a large sun-blocker to our eastward side, overcast weather and the previous evening's over-indulgences.
Under other circumstances I would have been up early, tapping away on the laptop, but while I managed a start, that happened much later than expected, and I'd mentally prepared myself to stop when Madam emerged from the shower, something that happened slightly later than expected, so there was a wild flurry of activity that had us downstairs in the foyer right on 8:20 to spot the Rottnest Explorer bus waiting on the other side of Hay Street. As we boarded and found seats about midway along the bus, I was mildly nonplussed to note a strangely familiar face, and while I couldn't imagine what noted Australian culinary personality Stephanie Alexander would be doing on a tour to Rottnest Island stranger coincidences have, no doubt, occurred.
Now, it's not as if Hughesy has spent his entire life filing away celebrity images in the memory bank, and as noted elsewhere, when they were filming the movie in Bowen (in Bowen Australia is always the movie) I wasn't sure I'd recognize Nicole Kidman and I failed to spot John Jarratt strolling past wearing a pink dressing gown, so why, inquiring minds would ask would Hughesy be spotting a grey-haired lady of a certain age and making an identification as Stephanie Alexander?
Simple, really.
After some thirty years of reading the odd article about food with that face somewhere in the byline, and a similar period of newspaper articles with accompanying photos, Ms Alexander is one of three or four culinary figures I'd possibly recognize in real life. When you consider the others are The Cook and The Chef and Neil Perry there's possibly an answer to your question of Who is Stephanie Alexander?
Given the relative dearth of watchable TV over recent months I seem to recall Ms Alexander as the subject of one of those tribute to and examination of their influence-type programs on the ABC, where the husband/partner was featured from time to time and there was something familiar about the bloke who was sitting alongside the possible influential culinary figure. There was another woman in the party of three, so it was possibly a case of three old friends or relatives on a day trip together, and since that was presumably the case I butted right out.
Still, you can't help wondering.
Checking in for the cruise was the predictable well-oiled process. Hand over the tour voucher and receive, in return, your ticket for the boat (and morning and afternoon tea), another for the bus tour around the island and a third that would get you into the buffet lunch. You also receive a timetable and a briefing during which the attendant draws helpful circles around the times and places where we'd need to be to catch the bus, get lunch and catch the return ferry to the mainland.
All this was done with a vocal tone that suggested extensive experience explaining such matters to befuddled elderly day-trippers, and since we don't fit that demographic I concluded that this was the result of a lengthy and very thorough training process.
Down at the ferry we presented our credentials to tour guide Adine, boarded the ferry, opted for seats upstairs on the outside deck, coincidentally landing the row in front of the suspected Alexander party. At that juncture I thought of turning around and asking whether a certain party was who I thought she was but concluded that if one of the doyens of modern Australian cooking was travelling incognito I wasn't going to blow her cover.
The cruise along the Swan towards Fremantle was accompanied by a descriptive narrative from Adine, though it wasn't exactly audible on the upper deck. Once we'd decided downstairs was the better option, after the Alexander party had done likewise (I had visions of I know that man's going to turn around and ask if I am who he thinks I am, and I won't have it!) and found seats in a snug position on the starboard side, Madam moved from time to time for photographic purposes, but I stayed put looking through the window and listening to Adine's commentary on the lifestyles of the rich but not necessarily East Coast famous occupants of Millionaire's Row.
The cruise, despite the weather outside, reinforced the view that the Swan helps define Perth in the same way the Harbour defines Sydney, and while we weren't experiencing the best conditions it was still thoroughly enjoyable. The morning tea, on the other hand, was on the very ordinary side of ordinary (tea or coffee, packaged biscuits and/or fruit cake).
After two stops in Fremantle it was onto the open waves for the crossing to Rotto, and we managed that without any distress for those who don't find the motion of ocean going vessels comfortable. Disembarking, we joined up with Adine and the rest of the tour party, making our way to the bus stop, with commentary along the way and warnings that the first two buses that hove into view were not our bus.
As previously noted, one suspects a thorough training program to develop the skills required to deal with aging and rebellious geriatrics.
Not that we fit that demographic, of course.
Aboard the third bus that arrived on the scene we set off for a clockwise circuit of the island, with comprehensive commentary from the English-accented bus driver. I won't be reproducing much of it here. Suffice it to say it was exhaustive and comprehensive, so if readers require details they'll have to do the trip themselves.
As we continued towards the island's western extremity it was obvious there were plenty of summer leisure options on hand, though the season and the prevailing conditions meant most people we saw were engaged in a cycling circuit of the island, presumably having pre-booked (and more significantly prepaid) their bicycles since the weather outside the bus wasn't the most clement of cycling conditions.
The weather came into consideration when the bus stopped at West End, where we were informed we were at liberty to spend a quarter of an hour strolling around the boardwalk and taking in the view and the photo opportunities.
Under the conditions, I would have been happy if they cancelled the walk and continued on the circuit, but that would have delivered the bus back to the main settlement before Adine would be ready for us, so with a little prompting the bus was emptied, and off we went.
From the start it was obvious outside was hardly the place to be unless you'd invested in, and decided to wear, well-insulated clothing with thermal underwear offering certain very definite added advantages. Remaining on the bus would label you a sook, so it was a matter of how long you could stand the cold.
I managed a complete circuit of the boardwalk, though I must admit that the final leg saw me gathering pace as I went, and it wasn't just the effect of the tailwind.
The views from the vantage points were spectacular, or rather they would be under the right circumstances. A passing comment when we were back in the main settlement suggested that the right circumstances were a relatively rare occurrence.
Having made my way back on board I waited while the hardier, better insulated souls went about proving their innate superiority. Predictably Madam, ever eager to catch that extra photo, was the last to re-board the bus. Meanwhile, in a seat beside the open mid-bus door that caught the prevailing gale and blew it directly you can guess where, Hughesy lightly froze.
On the return journey our attention was drawn to the mooring buoys placed at regular intervals around the bays and inlets with the commentary that these were available for lease at around two thousand dollars a year each, which, by Hughesy's calculations would produce a revenue stream of several million per annum for virtually no expenditure or effort. Nice work if you can get it.
We returned to find Adine patiently waiting, and there was a Follow me as we set out in search of lunch that didn't seem to go down too well with some members of the party but as we made our way into Rottnest Lodge, it was fairly obvious that they'd hidden the buffet deep inside the complex, and the guide was definitely advantageous.
Lunch, when we arrived, proved to be a reasonable, quite substantial take on the all you can eat buffet arrangement, starting with sliced turkey, pasta with a Bolognese-style sauce, a curry and rice option and moving from there through the usual suspects.
What one of the doyens of Australian cooking made of it I don't know and was polite enough not to ask.
Plates full, we opted to sit outside in the courtyard under an increasingly sunny blue sky, where the arrival of tourists bearing plates brought a number of seagulls, obviously well-versed in the opportunities for a free feed. One had the temerity to snaffle a chip off Madam's plate, and with another loitering with evident intent I caught it with a baleful beady eye and, in a stern voice as I indicated the carved turkey breast which had formed the base of the food mountain, remarked, This is your cousin!
A chastened and startled squawk suggested that the message had hit home.
A postprandial stroll through the settlement provided an avenue for up close and personal quokka spotting and brought us back to the jetty at the appointed time, and once we'd surrendered the boat ticket, retaining the stub that we'd be needing, so Adine informed us, for afternoon tea, we made our way upstairs to enjoy finer weather on the return journey.
No one, however, had pointed out the change in conditions on the water and once we were under way it took about two minutes to realise if we stayed where we were we'd be well drenched by the time we made it back to the safety of the estuary. The pitching and rolling of the vessel, on the other hand, meant there was the danger of ending up in the drink, something I might have managed if a helpful hand hadn't grabbed my wrist as we made a run for shelter below.
Once we'd done that, things improved remarkably, and there was something reassuring to be sitting watching the spray cascade towards our former position knowing we were well out of it. The crossing was remarkably rapid, and before we knew it we were inside the outer mole of Fremantle harbour, making our way to the first stop.
With the second stop out of the way, as we passed under the bridges that link the eastern portion of Freo to the CBD, an announcement from Adine that afternoon tea was available for those who might choose to indulge was met with complete disinterest until the following remark that there was a wine tasting for anyone so inclined.
Needless to say two afternoon tea-sceptics were making their way towards the rear of the vessel without further ado.
The tasting, as it turned out, represented the downmarket end of the Sandalford range, but with the mouths of gift horses and all that, Hughesy had a sample of everything that was on offer, and could probably have gone around again since Adine seemed bored and listless with nothing to do on the final portion of the cruise.
Tour guide, marshal of geriatric sheep, cruise commentator and dispenser of wine samples, the girl certainly wore a variety of hats.
After the courtesy bus dropped us back at the Travelodge, there was the matter of dinner to consider, though neither of us were up for a substantial repast. I think it was The Week that advised me of the existence of Tom's Kitchen, but I'd mentioned it to Madam, and she'd been interested at the time, so we found ourselves sitting on a Red Cat and heading towards the other side of the Hay Street Mall.
Tom's Kitchen lies tucked away in a lane way off Hay Street and does a good line in French-influenced bistro style food, with an eclectic wine list. Madam's seafood chowder was described as fishy, but not in a pejorative sense, my coq au vin was excellent, with deliciously tender meat falling off the bone and a sauce that needed some of Madam's bread for mopping up purposes, one of the very best things I’ve eaten in a long time.
The glass of Spanish Tempranillo (with most of the palate notes I've been noting in the Australian versions of the variety, so someone down this way's doing it right) went down rather well. I'd definitely be back, and could well be tempted to make repeated visits to try to work my way through most of the menu.
Highly recommended.
With dinner out of the way, we took a stroll back along Hay Street, taking the opportunity to drop into the Apple Store to have a gander at an iPad.
In a remarkable display of restraint Hughesy managed to escape without shelling out the thousand dollars required to collect a 64Gb Wi-Fi + 3G model, and after we’d finished the Hay Street stroll retired comfortably early with a day tip to Freo on tomorrow's agenda.