to object to everything being cleared. So, I started to say, ‘hang on Dad, lets slow down a bit.’ So that’s where it began.”
“Did he listen to you?”
“Yeah, he did. We could have ploughed the lot up, because it was all good country, but we left around 10% of it untouched. So, I’ve seen both sides of the coin. But the bush is so different from place to place and so much of it is being lost. People are wiping out whole, unique areas.”
Despite this, JW is still hopeful about the future of the bush and thinks we have turned the tide, with initiatives from Bush Heritage Australia. Founded in 1990 by Dr Bob Brown the organisation strives for the long-term protection of the nation’s biodiversity through the acquisition and management of land.
“There are a lot more people concerned now,” he continues, “and a lot of forest has been saved from being felled for woodchip, and areas are being re-planted.”
Unfortunately, my time with JW is drawing to an end and his manager pokes his head in the door, pointing to his watch and making signs. Finally, I ask him if he has a bucket-list. He ponders it for a while, “well I don’t think I’ve got a bucket-list musically anymore, as I’ve gone much further than I expected to. I don’t expect to write any more great songs. It may happen, but I don’t worry about it. That’s why the making of this new album Butcherbird was so relaxed because there was no pressure. I suppose I’d like to spend more time with my art.
I feel like a white Aboriginal I guess,” he says. “If I can walk into a piece of virgin forest George, where perhaps no human’s been before, then I feel privileged. The most important thing to me is nature. If we destroy it then we destroy ourselves really.”
Chapter Two.
Up the Coast
“Lord, I was born a ramblin’ man.”
The Allman Brothers
Bidding farewell to Uncle Pete, I point Percy, not at the porcelain but north with the familiar fluttering of butterflies the beginning of any trip brings. It’s hard to keep the grin off my face as I head the over the ‘coat hanger’, the Sydney Harbour Bridge in commuter traffic. Riding a motorcycle is when I feel most alive. You can be Don Quixote tilting at windmills, Clint Eastwood, in High Plains Drifter, Marlon Brando in The Wild Ones or Peter Fonda in Easy Rider. Take your pick.
Before construction was completed in 1932, horse-drawn carts, people and cars crossed the harbour by ferry which connected Dawes Point on the south side to Blues Point, the headland to the west of Luna Park.
The Aussie flag, so similar to the Kiwi one, flutters in the breeze. There is currently a political fight brewing over the suggestion that the Aboriginal flag have a permanent presence on the bridge, rather than its current 15 days per annum. Cheree Toka, a young Kamilaroi woman has attracted over 100,000 signatures with her online campaign. She, and many others reckon that we should all be proud of 60,000 odd years of indigenous history and flying the flag alongside the national and NSW state flags would be an appropriate expression of that pride. Personally, I’d love to see the red, yellow and black flag more often.
It doesn’t take long to eat up some miles on the Newcastle Freeway, followed by the fast Pacific Highway where I sing Frank Sinatra songs (Moon River being my best performance) at the top of my lungs, as my single-cylinder engine drones on. My venerable Kawasaki 649cc motorcycle, like me is old-school and not very complex. Since its introduction in 1987 it’s basically remained unchanged, again, just like me (“yeah, right!” I can hear my wife laugh!) There are plenty of things that it’s not. It’s not the fastest away from the lights or the prettiest. It’s not the most expensive and probably not the most comfortable. What it is, is robust, and unpretentious, lacking the modern gizmos, like traction control, adjustable riding modes, ABS brakes, and fuel injection to name the most basic things that manufacturers seem to think everyone wants. Its massive fuel tank means that it won’t splutter to a halt before the next roadhouse or town. And with its 21inch front wheel, high ground clearance and bash plate, it’s designed to handle rough roads when the tarmac ends, as I feel sure it will, at some stage on my journey. Legendary for its rugged versatility, the big single has a functional beauty that many motorcyclists fail to appreciate. As one advertisement put it, the KLR is, “Not good at anything but good at everything.”
At Kempsey’s Information Centre a helpful volunteer directs me further up the road to the arty little town of Bellingen in the growing dusk. I find the YHA Hostel and grab the last bunk in a four-man dorm, praying there are no snorers, as I’m a light sleeper and they have been the bane of my travelling life. As I book in, I produce my gold YHA life membership card with a flourish. “That’s worthless now mate,” the warden says dismissively, “you automatically get membership these days when you book a bed.”
It’s Trivia Night at the Federal Hotel and they’re doing a brisk trade as I settle the dust with a pint of Coopers. Before leaving in the chilly morning I chat with an English travel-guide writer and his Australian, yoga-instructor wife as they eat their muesli. Their cute seven-year-old son wants to teach me origami, but I insist I’m not patient enough. The father is reading about Donald Trump’s meeting with Putin in Helsinki on his phone. “Says here,” he laughs, “that Trump, ‘projecting nothing but weakness, rolled over and invited Putin to tickle him.’”
It’s cold leaving Bellengin and I switch my heated handlebar grips on. “Pussy” I can hear you say but I regard it as a Health and Safety issue. The Pacific Highway is more interesting now as it takes me through towns, rather than passing them by. At Coffs Harbour I ride down to the jetty to see the fishing boats and watch a pelican glide across the water, its pouch full of fish.
As I travel up the coast towards Queensland, a record dry spell is causing eastern Australia’s worst drought in a century. In parts of inland New South Wales, livestock are starving, as a dry winter and high temperatures have severely depleted grazing. Australia is not alone. Wildfires are ravaging Greece and even Sweden has asked for international assistance to help tackle an epidemic of wild fires. And to think, there are still Climate Change sceptics!
Past the Yuraygir National Park, largest coastal park in the state and through the Bom Bom State Forest, the air is thick with a blue smoky haze from recent bush fires. Just past Grafton in the tiny town of Ulmarra it’s time for another coffee, this one not so good – too weak and only luke warm. I drink it nonetheless at a picnic table on the banks of the wide and tranquil River Clarence. “This used to be a famous river port town,” an old timer with a huge nicotine-stained, white beard tells me when he sees me writing. His fox terrier pisses up my table leg as if to emphasise he master’s words.
Just outside Brisbane I plug in my GPS and punch in my mate Foz’s address. Over my engine noise and traffic, I struggle to follow the well-modulated tones of the woman giving me directions. It’s still an ordeal, jousting with manic rush-hour traffic intent on getting back to hearth and home, but it would have been a very frustrating exercise without it. Foz (aka Paul Fozzard) went to University with my wife in London back in the 80’s
