Aussie rules

Many years ago, in another life, I had a couple of friends. He was English; she was Australian, from South Australia as I recall. They had a baby boy and not long after decided to return to Oz, it being the land of opportunity and a great place to rear children. During their first year, they moved from South Australia to New South Wales, and not long after that they returned to the UK, defeated by bureaucracy and the rulebook. One of the examples they gave as illustration was the fact that Australians do not have an national driver's licence but a state one. So if you move interstate, you have to get a new licence.

When you move to a different country, inevitably and unsurprisingly there are regulations about how to set up your new life. And you have to become acquainted with your host country's procedures, concerning the provision of healthcare for example, which may seem unfathomable at first, if not for longer. Basic elements of life may be accompanied by unfamiliar rulebooks and, until you know the ropes, potential pitfalls may be lurking when you try to open a bank account, buy a car, rent property, set up accounts with utility companies, choose a mobile phone network provider, insure your belongings... and so on.

Rules don't always seem to be... how can I put it... born of absolute necessity. So, why can't I have the name by which I am known, and have used for decades on my bank account in the UK, on my bank account here? Because I have to use my birth name. So every time I call my bank, they call me Judith, which I loathe. And every time I have to correct them: 'My name is Jude'. You have to use that same name on airline tickets and tenancy applications. Now Australia is a very friendly place, and lots of people use your first name as soon as they start talking to you, so now everyone – from travel agents to property managers – calls me Judith.

I AM NOT JUDITH, I AM JUDE.

I have always believed that I come from a country full of signs in public places telling me what I can and cannot do. The UK has very many rules about all sorts of things: 'Don't walk on the grass'; 'No ball games'; 'Dancing is not permitted in aisles and gangways'; 'No diving or bombing'; 'Do not write anything outside the box', 'Stand to the right'; 'Glasses are not permitted in the auditorium'; 'No busking'; 'Jacket required'. (My friend despairs when signs each have their own post, rather than sharing, creating a forest of the damn things.) But when I came here, I found there were more.

When Captain Arthur Phillip founded the first penal colony in Port Jackson in 1788, he had 759 convicts under his jurisdiction. He had 211 marines and officers to keep them under control in challenging circumstances – not very productive soils, lots of pests and diseases, hostile natives and too few human resources (such as carpenters, engineers and horticulturalists). His primary concern was controlling his charges and, being a navy man, he imposed a fairly authoritarian regime that persisted after he left (in 1792) and during early colonisation, when food shortages especially posed a threat to stability within fledgling communities.

In Australians: Origins to Eureka (Vol 1), Thomas Keneally describes 'punishment field days' on the banks of the Brisbane River under the direction of 'notorious flogger' Captain Patrick Logan. '"Skulkers" and recalcitrants were selected... for ritual punishment – "fifty or a hundred lashes apiece" – in front of their fellow prisoners'. Keneally believes such a scene 'provides par excellence a tableau of the petty authoritarianism which would live on in Australian public affairs beyond convict times'.

Many systems and regulations in Australia since have been lifted directly from those in the mother country; some of them have been refined, others made more cumbersome. On occasion, we've had to remind ourselves that we're not at home; when we're in a post office, for instance.

So, some examples...

Most of us expect dress codes in certain places, but not necessarily in a not-so-posh venue in Charters Towers in northern Queensland...

...or a surf club in Rainbow Beach.

Also while on our travels, I would never have anticipated a limit on how long a break I could take during a day's drive...

...or be faced with this much reading matter when I park in order to admire Lake Wivenhoe.

Back in Brisbane, by the pool at South Bank, I wouldn't dream of running, diving or swimming in the altogether, but neither would it occur to me to brush up on 'all other state and local health codes'.

Nor would I consider having a punch-up or practicing my high kicks or Riverdance moves in a gondola on Brisbane's Wheel.

I do, however, appreciate the fact that Bribie Island council has worked out precisely how much it costs to clean up after its less-than-considerate visitors...

But I fear that the usually brilliant Brisbane City Council are getting a little too up close and personal...

I am not going to touch on rules of the road here, because driving in Australia warrants a post in its own right, but I must just briefly mention cats and dogs, all of whom have to be registered here. You must keep a dog on a lead in all public places except in dog off-leash areas – hey, I can run without fear of attack – and Brisbane Council will consider your dog a nuisance if it barks for six minutes in any hour between 7am and 10pm or for three minutes in any half-hour between 10pm and 7am (so don't forget to keep a stopwatch on your bedside table). And they recommend that you keep your cat in from 8 in the evening until 6 in the morning (to protect small wildlife). However, despite what my neighbour told me (he has a dog of the small yappy variety), there is no cat curfew in this city.

I will leave a potentially irksome subject on a humorous note, with a sign in New Farm Park, close by the dog off-leash area.

It is a joke, isn't it?

More Magpies

All is not well in Waterline Crescent Park. One of the bottle trees – the one housing the Magpie nests – has lost most of its leaves. I await a Council arborealist's diagnosis of the problem. The upside is that we are privileged to see much of what goes on in nest number two.

And there is much to report since the middle of October. Mrs Magpie was indeed sitting on eggs and at least some survived the big storm. Two hatched, and the chicks are now almost adult-sized. There's a lot a flapping but no take-off as yet. And they do a lot of grooming.

The Original Chick (OC) is still on the scene. She continues to demand food although she is perfectly capable of foraging for herself...

...and noisily follows her da around, looking bereft when he strides off, having other matters to attend to.

The OC also sits opportunistically by the new nest (on the left, below).

But her persistence pays off. Mrs M passes her the odd morsel while attending to the two newbies (below – Mrs M to the left). Is this conclusive proof therefore that Mrs M is the original? The Newbies can't be far off fledging. In the meantime, they spend a lot of time sitting and surveying, rather exposed in their denuded bottle tree.

New takes on Byron

Donna Wheeler in Shore thing: Australia's beach obsession for Lonely Planet describes Byron thus: 'Byron Bay... can sometimes feel like a victim of its own popularity, but for most of the year its cluster of beaches and surrounding hinterland preserve an almost eerily transcendent beauty that has long inspired talk of ley lines and magic power of place.'

I anticipate many happy returns to Byron while I am living in Queensland. 'Transcendent beauty' goes some way to explaining the draw (see also Nothing beats Byron, September 2010). I will attempt to capture different elements of that specialness.

Hinterland

Bangalow

The visit

Months of anticipation.

The countdown: weeks, days, hours, fractions.

Friday 21 October. Checking international arrivals at KL. Surprisingly, almost-welling tears in the knowledge that Malaysia Airlines MH135 from LHR has landed safely.

Checking the departure board. They're at the gate. Take-off on time. The last leg.

We're at Brisbane's International terminal early, of course. It's strangely but delightfully quiet. Touch-down bang on time. Joy. Where shall we stand? What if they turn that way as they come out? Are those people off the KL flight? 30 minutes later our visitors appear. Shrieks of delight. At last my daughters are part of my Australian experience.

They feel the heat, smell the foreignness. My friend drives. I keep turning to them in the back. Look at the lights of the CBD; this is the Gateway Bridge. Do you remember it from years ago? It's twice the size it was. We're in Bulimba already. This is Oxford Street – it's always buzzing, but it is Friday evening. At the house. Cries of approval. Cases in rooms. Food on the plane was awful: Muma's rice salad. Hardly any sleep: early nights all round.

An early wake-up for me, as always. They are under my roof at last. Contentment. They meet us for breakfast down by ferry terminal on our return from Powerhouse Farmers' Market. Certain amount of disbelief as they wave from a table as we get off the Cat. This arvo, the 'Introduction to Brisbane' CityCat ride – Apollo Road to University of Queensland and back to Bulimba. It's sunny and warm and the city looks very fine. This is the Powerhouse, Floating Walkway, Story Bridge, Customs House, Riverside, the CBD, Kangaroo Point cliffs, Botanic Gardens, Captain Cook Bridge, Pelican sculpture, Goodwill Bridge, Maritime Museum, Casino, Brisbane Square Library, 'Tensegrity' (Kurilpa) Bridge, 'McDonald's' (William Jolly) Bridge, Go Between Bridge... And an invitation into the ferry master's wheelhouse for a couple of stops to learn how to dock a high-speed catamaran on the fast-flowing Brisbane River. Later, the first barbie for the girls.

Sunday in both senses – Queensland weather on its best behaviour. It's cute little furry animal time and we're off to the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary.

None of us is happy with 'animals for tourists'. Only one koala in a real tree, and lots of resigned roos in an enclosure, being prodded and photographed by giggling-but-sometimes-squealing, mainly Asian visitors. And a kookaburra in a cage puts all heaven in a rage. We decline to cuddle a koala, and take small consolation from the fact that the $120 entrance fee (for four) might somehow help koala conservation. An almighty storm in the evening. The girls marvel at the rain battering and entering a closed window; I quiver at each lightning flash, always a source of amusement for others.

At 5am on Monday morning, a disturbed 'yachtie' moors his boat by Eagle Street ferry terminal, with a bath boat (City Ferry) to either side, and threatens to blow up his boat. If this was the Old Country, the river would have been closed and the riverbank evacuated within a wide radius. But we are in Australia. As our Cat passes within 100 metres of the incident, albeit more slowly than usual, everyone cranes and gawps and some take pictures (of very little). Our first shopping expedition is not thwarted. The great search for Havaianas (below, on Wategos beach). Once located at City Beach, which colour, what size? Must have a horizontal stripe through the sole. Oh, and the boatie? The seige ends after 16 hours when the man sets fire to his boat, bayonets himself in the stomach and jumps into the river having also been hit by 'non-lethal rounds' fired by police.

Tuesday is Byron-day. Manic packing. Deadline: have to be at Gold Coast Airport to meet a midday flight from Melbourne. Down the Pacific Highway into New South Wales, back into Queensland, then finally into NSW - how to confuse a mobile phone. We're early. Much excitement about the sisters and brother reunion and long-been friends together again. Same as it ever was. Pack into the car for the final 35 minutes' drive. Sibling catch-up in the back – 13 months' worth. Lush green pastures and pointy peaks, and then we're turning off the highway. As ever, straight to look out over Belongil. Rather more than cotton-wool clouds but still sunny. We have rented a house at the back of Clarkes Beach, on the edge of Arakwal National Park. Roomy, quiet, feels as if we live here. Everyone slots into their comfort zones.

A wonderful night's sleep – no barking dogs, no excessive ute acceleration, no snoring. Oh, the joy of waking to a glorious sunny morning in Byron. Even a whipbird whip-cracking close by. Breakfast at Twisted Sista as good as it ever was. Then retail therapy for girls and the gym for the boy. A picnic lunch and sunbaking on Wategos. (Does anyone not feel good on Wategos, looking out over that sun-kissed sweep of ocean?) A black cloud on the northern horizon is heading up Brisbane way but all's well in Byronworld. A beer at the Beach Hotel before supper at Fresh on Jonson.

Time to be more adventurous. I can't come to Byron and just gaze adoringly at Wategos every time. Drive over the top to Bangalow for the morning. Green main thoroughfare with cute, irresistible shops full of indulgences. Otherwise much the same routine... bit more retail in Byron, beers at the Beach... Ah, it's been a while since I've heard brother's and sisters' banter and bickering: normal service has resumed.

Early-morning walk on Clarkes for me: mood-enhancer. Sadly, our last breakie at Sista's. And a final retail moment - at the bead shop. My LBF (long-been friend) is going to make us girls necklaces. We eagerly place bead allsorts into our collecting trays. Tea at the Balcony. Once more unto Wategos. Us girls are paddling and my son is swimming when there is an Amityville moment. The police clear everyone out of the water. A shark's been spotted from a low-flying plane. My son has never moved so fast. Speculatory huddles along the water's edge. Suddenly there's a huge shadow beneath the surface: a humpback. We'd seen 'blows' near the horizon and now there are two in the Bay. No shark in evidence - tinge of disappointment.

Farewell to Byron. Heat and congestion, fortunately not northbound, on the way back to the city. No vacancies in this house tonight. Hamburger special order at our favourite local restaurant.

Tooings and froings for a couple of days: my dear LBF departs for Melbourne on Saturday; my son's girlfriend arrives from Melbourne on Monday. And in between – swimming at the smart July-opened Colmslie pool, just up the road, another barbie, and visits to South Bank, 'the heart of Brisbane's cultural, lifestyle and entertainment precinct'...

...and Coochiemudlow Island, the most easily accessible (seven minutes by passenger ferry) of the Moreton Bay islands and less than an hour from Brisbane. A curious little place, strangely other-worldly; not so much Southeast Queensland as outback-by-the-sea. 'Interesting' locals as well as punters. Pleasant Melaleuca and Casuarina woodland; narrow, fine-sanded little beaches that remind me of those bordering Scottish lochs. Not a user-friendly name, however, from the Aboriginal word for red rocks. Inevitably, and fortunately for once, it's affectionately shortened to Coochie (Coochie Coo?).

It's Tuesday of week two and a bigger-trip day. More frantic packing and squabbles over who sits where in the car. Late getaway. Very warm and sunny already as we head for the Sunshine Coast. Rainbow Beach is either at the northern end of the aforementioned, or at the start of the Fraser Coast, or on the Cooloola Coast, depending on which travel site you read. Turn off the Bruce Highway at Gympie. Rainbow is almost 80k away, on the Inskip Peninsula, but it feels more beautifully isolated than that, especially once you're on the roller-coaster road through the Great Sandy National Park.

Rainbow reminds me of Byron but scaled down and without the hype. My son has scanty memories of a place with nothing there during his travels in a camper. In fact there are two supermarkets, two bakeries, a post office, ice cream parlour, numerous cafes, clothes and gift shops, a backpacker and student travel agent, various types of accommodation, surf club, pub (hotel) , fish and chip shop and more places to eat than we could get through in five days. But no bank. Take plenty of cash if you don't want to pay fees at ATMs.

There are wonderful beaches, surf, coloured sands and intriguing sand features, lagoons, a lighthouse, long treks or short walks. Many people just pass through on their way to Fraser Island but Rainbow Beach merits a little longer and closer attention to detail (see also Rainbow's magic, November 2010).

And so back to Brisbane, some of those who had sunbaked with tender skin, and the one who had body surfed with bruised ribs.

The last week was bound to fly by. The days must not be whiled away but put to good exploratory use. We do the real touristy bit on my son's last day before his return to Melbourne – the Wheel of Brisbane. This offers three, faster revolutions in half the time than on the London Eye for example, but the views of the river and the CBD make it worthwhile. All the way from West End we speculate about how much the experience will cost. By the time we approach the ticket office, we're up to $400 for four. It's $15 a head – almost feels like a bargain.

We do the National Park thing on Wednesday. Springbrook, about an hour south of Brisbane is beautiful and desolate in the dire weather that closes in as we climb 900 metres above the Gold Coast and prevents us from seeing the mother of all views (Best of All Lookout). We are in the clouds as we head along Repeater Station Road (!). We do see pademelons hop across our path, however.

Wunburra Lookout

Purlingbrook Falls

Denied our Springbrook lookouts, we descend to the Numinbah Valley and Natural Bridge. This valley is stunningly beautiful – lush and almost alpine. (Next time I'll stop and take photographs.) Natural Bridge is reputed to be a splendid basalt arch carved by Cave Creek beneath the Springbrook plateau's western cliffs. But the dramas that have punctuated my daughters' visit are not done yet. As we attempt to turn off the Nerang-Murwillumbah Road to observe this natural wonder, we are stopped by a friendly-but-firm security guard. The Steven Spielberg '$150 million dinosaur blockbuster' Terra Nova is being filmed at the Bridge today and public access is not allowed. A sign 20k back down the road would have been helpful: we've been heading towards New South Wales for the last half-hour. We volunteer to be extras but he's heard that one before, so we harumph back to Brisbane.

The last full day is beach day and the Sunshine State has to pull out all the stops to live up to its reputation. A girl's gotta go back to Blighty from Oz with a bit of colour. A glorious start gives way to pretty serious cloud as we set out and the girls look up ominously. 'It will be better on the coast,' I assure them, 'Trust me.' They clearly don't. We're off to Woorim on Bribie Island which is the nearest, what I call 'proper' beach to Brisbane (see also Fast forward, July 2010). Which means no mangroves, pale sand, hint of surf.

The beach is not as clean or as big as I remember. The tide's right in and there's a dune stabilisation programme fencing off the back. Then the Bogun family arrive to fish. First, they park right next to us in the massive, almost deserted car park; and then they make camp, on a beach stretching out of sight with only a handful of sharers, just 20 metres from where we're sitting. They have a large dog that they tie up to a dune-stabilising stake. It barks loudly and incessantly. They release it and it then proceeds to run into the sea every time one of the men casts his line, barking loudly and incessantly. I could happily kill it within ten minutes; I can hear dogs barking incessantly from my lounge room back in Bulimba. Mrs Bogun is not wearing enough clothes and a muffin-top spills over her shorts. She squeals each time she catches a tiddler and she seems to be getting closer. I don't think she's all there. I dearly wish she wasn't. We pick up our towels and walk. The sun comes out; the tide goes out; the day is rescued.

Just as longed-for visits come to pass, so must they end. We finish with a flourish: it had to be shopping, didn't it? And where better than Paddington – that's Paddington in Brisbane, not Paddington in Sydney. This is where workers lived, then students dossed, and gentrification has inevitably followed. Renovated Queenslanders sit on seriously up-and-downey lanes with enviable views. We head for Latrobe Terrace, where high fashion mixes with vintage and you can browse upmarket homeware and fabric shops, bookshops and antiques before eating healthily in cafes and coffee shops. We could have easily broken the bank: serious restraint was called for, and for hours longer than intended.

A final walk along the Brisbane River at sunset; the last supper at The Jetty.

By kind permission of Olivia Forsey

Cases in the boot; the last of many recent trips to the airport. Keep smiling; deep breaths; don't think. Slow-moving check-in queue. Goodbyes. A few tears. Quiet house on our return. Midnight and they're still here in Brisbane but not with us: for some reason, that's the really difficult bit.