Day 6: Sydney
The agenda, once we'd checked out of the Travelodge (leaving luggage in the cloakroom until after lunch) was heavily slewed towards the photographic side of things, with Madam eager to head across to Watson's Bay by ferry, an idea that sat comfortably with someone who had the iPod for company and was looking forward to the ferry ride.
Arriving at Circular Quay, however, we had an hour to wait before the next ferry, so we had to go somewhere, and the most logical somewheres were either the Botanic Gardens or a circuit of the Opera House, which was the option we ended up taking.
I was quite happy to wander, muse and listen while the photographic indulgences were indulged, but was regularly asked to take the odd happy snap for visiting travellers who wanted pictorial evidence they'd made it to the iconic landmark.
Madam's plan, based on a comment from a blog friend, had been to take the ferry to Watson's Bay and bus it back, but after the trip across, seated in the back of the vessel surrounded by people standing to take photos and point out landmarks to each other, there was no way I was going to be doing the landlubber's return trip.
The view from the back was fine, you understand, but would have been better without the bodies around me. A seat on the upper deck, I reasoned, would give much better views across the water on both sides, which was the way it subsequently turned out.
Given my pre-existing concert and winery agenda, I try to stay out of close involvement with the rest of the planning, limiting the input to the odd suggestion here and there (as in coming up with Spice I Am from the old iPad Urbanspoon app), so the coincidence of Watson's Bay and Doyle's Seafood Restaurant had slipped under the old guard.
Things didn't remain that way, however, and as we passed the establishment en route to South Head I thought that it just might be possible to snaffle a table looking out over the bay if we were right on the doorstep bang on opening time.
That was still a good hour and a half away, so a ramble along the walking track seemed a suitable way to kill time, and rather pleasant it was, plenty of photo opportunities and enough natural bush on Middle Head to allow the wanderer to meditate on what it might have looked like from Arthur Philip's point of view as he sailed into this Harbour, capable of, to paraphrase his phrase, holding a thousand ships of the line. He apparently landed somewhere in the vicinity, and Watson's Bay almost immediately became the focus of the infant colony's fishing industry, remaining an isolated fishing village until the 1860s.
The walk took in the old lighthouse keeper's quarters, as well as the Hornby Lighthouse, but only killed an hour rather than the ninety minutes that would've brought us back to Doyle's doorstep on the dot of twelve.
Faced with the prospect of imminent starvation there was no option but to proceed to the fish and chippery at Doyle's on the wharf, which was open and doing a reasonably brisk trade.
Given it's status as a fish and chips operation that combines takeaway and eat it there options, you place your order at one end of the building, collect your meal and head off to wherever you want to eat it, which could well be the adjacent parkland, but Hughesy had visions of Riesling or similarly fish-friendly white so we headed to the other end of the building where the Riesling was notable by it's absence as a by the glass option but a house Semillon (made by Tyrrells, who know what they're doing with the variety) was a very reasonable alternative.
What I ended up with wasn't the greatest fish and chips you've ever tasted, but was quite reasonable, if a little expensive. It might be the old Queensland bias kicking in, but I'd rate Swains in Gladstone higher, though this version of the Doyle's operation has far superior views.
A glance at the blogosphere will reveal the predictable range of views about the place, but you can counter almost every criticism of the place with the point that the view and the setting is what it's all about here. Yes, you can eat better fish and chips (taking Swains as an example) but the view across the water to Middle Head and the distant Sydney CBD is far superior to the scenic panorama of the Gladstone railway line.
We'd just finished when an incoming ferry docked, and it was about time to head back anyway, but as we headed against the flow of disembarking passengers I got the distinct impression that, had we waited till twelve to try to get a seat at the upmarket operation we'd have been greeted with a Sorry, fully booked.
And, more than likely, a lengthy queue at the place where we'd just been.
The return journey, seated on the top tier of the vessel seemed quicker than the outward leg, though that may well have been a function of a less crowded situation and more expansive scenic viewing options.
Based on this experience I'd suspect Watson's Bay is a popular day tripper venue, so you're best off catching the first ferry (just after ten), eating before noon and heading back in the early afternoon if you want to avoid the crush of the crowd, though that first ferry is still likely to be packed to the gunwales.
Back at Circular Quay we could have walked, but the train to Town Hall seemed the better and quicker option, so that was the way we went. Collecting the lost property from the Hilton took a good fifteen minutes, followed by the walk along the now-familiar route between the CBD and the Travelodge.
Once we'd collected the baggage, the game plan had involved a bus out to Rydges Camperdown, which in turn entailed buying a prepaid ticket from a nearby convenience store which had managed to sell out of same. We were about to head off in search of an alternative source when we passed a cab rank with a vacant taxi, so we opted for the quicker and still quite reasonable option and were safely booked in and settled by three.
That gave us a bit of down time before concert preparations, and I was musing on the fact that a repeat of Tuesday night's schedule would entail a very short set from Robert Randolph when a check revealed a starting time of seven-fifteen rather than eight, prompting a significantly earlier departure than originally planned.
The twenty-four minute walk suggested by the Maps app took considerably longer than advertised, due to distractions along King Street, and we reached the preferred dinner option around five-thirty. Zheng Hao had attracted good reviews over at Urbanspoon, something that most of the other options in the area hadn't quite managed, so as far as I was concerned it was a case of eat and wait rather than wander, choose and presumably end up at the end of a queue of diners who'd descended on the place while we were making up our minds.
Madam, still close to replete after Tasmanian salmon at Doyle's, opted for soup dumplings similar to those we'd had the previous day (the dough, she reported was slightly thicker, but still very good) while, faced with a variety of temptations, I settled for Singapore Noodles, which were excellent. I doubt that we'll be back in the area in a hurry, but if we are I'd quite happily set about trying to give the menu at Zheng Hao a thorough going over.
Had we taken a look around the neighbourhood, however, we just might have gone elsewhere, since we were passing Bank's Thai when Madam spotted the distinctive hairstyle and facial features of Derek Trucks.
Now, I'd looked at the place as an option, but decided to give it a miss based on reviews that were slightly more mixed than those at Zheng Hao, and, possibly, had we gone looking and spotted Mr Trucks in there we'd have gone in too, working on the assumption that someone who knew had pointed him in that particular direction.
But, as we found out later, that hadn't quite been the case.
A stroll a few blocks further along Enmore Road killed some of the waiting time until the doors opened but we ended up standing around outside the venue while the distinctive notes of Robert Randolph's pedal steel thundered away at soundcheck inside.
Part of the waiting time was consumed listening to nearby chatter, with particular attention to a muscular young bloke carrying a guitar body, a Johnny Depp look-alike and his Pacific Islander mate, who were exchanging Derek Trucks sightings, Guitar Bloke having managed to obtain a signature on the back of the axe, and Depp Dude having been sitting in a coffee shop when a certain ponytailed guitarist asked for the name of a good place to eat.
Both had been carrying cameras, and neither had thought to get a photo, though both reckoned D. Trucks Esquire seemed to be a very pleasant and down to earth bloke.
He might have been down to earth, but with a delay in opening the theatre doors, when the Trucks party disgorged from Bank's Thai he was forced to make a lengthy detour to the back of the Enmore If he wanted to avoid a substantial crowd on the footpath.
Eventually, however, the doors opened, and once inside it was a case of checking the merchandise table (after, of course, getting my hands on a beer) but, as had been the case with the Costello concert, what was on offer was rather disappointing.
They still seemed to be doing a fairly brisk trade, but I already owned the complete Derek Trucks discography, the forthcoming Revelator album isn't out for another month, and the three t-shirts on offer were, in the words of Guitar Bloke, the sort of thing you'd be disinclined to spend ten dollars on, so the thirty they were asking was well and truly out of the question.
I'd spotted a guy sporting an Allman Brothers Beacon Run t-shirt a while beforehand, and had anything in the booth matched the visual splendour of that little number I'd willingly have outlaid the shekels.
From that point there wasn't much we could do but head up to find our seats and wait in considerable, but not quite breathless, anticipation for a concert that didn't disappoint in most departments, but the sound (as noted in the review) could have been better in the vocal department.
Half time found me back in the foyer, chasing beer and exchanging notes with the security bloke we'd chatted to before the doors opened, who suggested Robert Randolph would be sitting in with the Tedeschi Trucks Band, an eventuality that failed to eventuate, though an unexpected appearance by Warren Haynes was a pleasant surprise.
We're not in the practice of mixing concert reviews in with our Travelogues, but interested readers can find the same review here or here.
Once the show was over, however, the density of the crowd on the Enmore footpath suggested we'd be lucky to get a taxi any time soon, and faced with a lack of alternative we set out to hoof it back to the hotel, arriving just before midnight, having completed the return leg much faster than the outward leg.