Within a week of landing in Sydney, last November, I visited Bondi Beach. Two hours there was enough to know that I would never connect with it as a place. Reliably beautiful weather and early-riser culture had turned the crowds into a caricature of self-obsession. The widespread use of botox and the sinewy compositions made those striving for the perfect appearance seem alien and ugly. It made me feel homesick for England, where I could wear several layers of winter attire, and be indifferent towards bicep muscles.
This early mental blockade against Bondi had me reflecting on the idea of connection. Okay - so I’ve ended up as Meghan’s European souvenir on this dust bowl of an island - where will I find my place?
Unlike other parts of the world - the US, France, Tajikistan - I’d never dreamt of Australia, or visualised a version of it that I’d always wanted to experience. So these last seven months have been about discovery.
A couple months ago I shipped my bike from the UK. When it finally got released from three weeks of biosecurity inspection, and the UPS slip arrived through my letter box, I already had a route in mind.
The Greater Sydney Bike Trail. A 230km loop of Sydney’s hinterlands, exploring all the places that I have little or no reason to visit. TripAdvisor’s enemy.
The route keeps to bike lanes for 80%, and weaves through quieter residential roads. I split it over two days, finishing at Quakers Hill train station on day one, and returning there on day two to continue. I spent every minute of daylight outside for the entire weekend, watching other people’s weekend’s unfold, a passive observer of routine.
A lovely way to enjoy the arrival of winter.
















