Seven miles and a world away....

Greetings from Brisbane, where the local time is 17:43, and I'm currently enjoying a cuppa whilst sitting on the balcony of the penthouse apartment of the hotel where I'm staying. Although having written that, it occurs to me it may look a little grand and perhaps, dare I say, pretentious. Therefore, when I write penthouse, just read that as a corner room on the top floor, which is less theatrically grandiose and more descriptive. 

It is a mild afternoon, there is a gentle breeze that would, if I had any, ruffle my hair with soft caresses. The sky is a lovely myriad of blues, deep when looking directly overhead, lighter and more watery with a golden tinge, the further one gazes toward the TV transmitter aerials on the hills in Mount Coot-tha Reserve to my left. On my right, over the river, beyond West End and over South Brisbane, the sky has a slightly lighter hue, equally as pleasing and easy on the eye. 

Earlier, the sun shone brightly, with nary a cloud blemishing the distant blue as I walked up and down the South Bank area of Brisbane. I did venture further from the riverside and headed inland a wee bit. I wandered freely along the Arbour Walkway, with its shade and abundance of Bougainvilleas along the arches and arcs. From there, I paid a brief visit to the small yet reflective South Brisbane Memorial Park before crossing a busy road by a red brick clock tower that reminded me of a Catholic cathedral, opposite the massive Queensland Children's Hospital. This area is evidently the medical quarter of the city, for I counted at least four other hospitals, half a dozen clinics, and numerous other healthcare-related businesses in this area, all impressive in size and scale, although, as most of them were private, I shudder to think of the insurance and operation costs!

I had no plan, no map, no preconceived ideas, so I just followed the road along until I either saw a pretty-looking street or found its name appealing, and thus found myself preambling down a road called Park. Mrs Merton came into my mind when I saw a road with that name, and yes, I walked down part of it, until Ross Street, which took my fancy. There is something oddly soothing about casually walking along residential streets as a tourist, where your mind considers the architecture, the street furniture - if there is any, the greenery or gardens, and so on. Of course, there were a few properties where I'd wonder what it might be like to live there, stay there, and so on. I'm not sure if I'm alone in conjuring up those sorts of fantasies, but the mind does what the mind does, and I'm quite pleased about that. For about a minute, maybe two, I was dreaming what it would be like living in a house that looked like something out of The Sullivans, complete with cream colour picket fence, down a road called Fleur. How delightful it would be as the owner of a historic, wooden house in a Brisbane suburb with a wide shaded front deck where one could sit out in a rocking chair sipping on a coffee, cup of tea, cocktail, or beer depending on the time of day. Those mental pictures disintegrated when my eyes happened upon other houses on stilts, with the living area raised above the ground, and my mind raced to how achy my knees would be, should that have been my abode. 

I have no idea how I somehow managed to find my way to a street called Hawthorne, high above a busy highway and a most pleasing and rather exotic-looking church. Now, those who know me will honestly contest that religion and me are not best friends; however, that doesn't apply to religious buildings. The architecture of worship can be amazing; some are ridiculously imposing and more ostentatious than some Arab millionaires' boudoirs, while others are more subtle and almost homely. The church on Hawthorne was neither of those, yet had various traditional anglecan church like freatures, such as arched stained glass windows, yet with its white painted walls, terracotta tiled roof and square bell tower with no clock and the appearance of a minaret, looked positively Venetian or at least Italian, with perhaps a touch of the Spanish. For a few minutes, I was stopped in my tracks, just looking at this wonderful building dedicated to a god I didn't believe in. Yet, for once, I was glad that others believed in her, for they created this Romanesque building and others still kept it looking as bright as when it was first built. I may not be religious myself, but sometimes, just sometimes, I'm bloody glad it's there!

It is only now that I come to write this, from the comfort of my balcony, that I realise that:

A) My feet ache. 

B) I've walked some 22,460 (about 7.8 miles) steps today. 

C) I wasn't in South Brisbane all the time. 

D) Woolloongabba was the area in which the church was located. 

E) It's too cold to be sitting out in shorts and a T-shirt. 

F) My nose got a little sunburnt today!

 

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