Sunday Morning Sydney

We moved as far away from the city as you can move without actually leaving. An hour’s drive at 2am on a Sunday, at least two hours of peak hour commute. 75 kilometres of get-me-out-of-here to our little acre of green. Where we feel the sun, we see the stars and the milky way, we hear the rain coming across the valley. If someone drives down the road we think “who’s that?”. Ducklings cross like crazy city pedestrians. Start, hesitate, get distracted, run. We chat to the neighbour’s cows, disinterestedly munching down by the back fence. At night there are no street lights.

In the early morning the birds come down for snacks, dog kibble for the carnivores, the quirky-voiced formally dressed magpies and yodelling blue-obsessed bower birds. Some wild bird seed for the rest. And maybe a bit of corn. The doves, galahs, miners and corellas queue along the hills hoist arms, impatiently waiting their turn at the hanging feeder. Kamikaze lorikeets bully them away and push in like naughty schoolkids. On the grass the wood ducks graze and chatter, now and then winging over the pool fence to “their” pool, it’s waters undefended while we are away at work.

We have neighbours. People who we know. We’ve watched their kids grow up and leave and sometimes come back. We attend their decade Birthday parties, cry with them over a lost dog, empty their mail when they’re away. We drink wine and toast marshmallows at the fire pit in winter, and mow grass and swim together in summer. When something’s broken, we help fix it.

We love where we live. Who could possibly want to be in the city?!

And yet, once in a while, usually in winter, we use our $2.50 Sunday public transport tickets, and we take a train ride.

Sydney spreads along its rivers and across its plains about as far as it can go without mountain range or National Park impeding its progress. Its sharply cold in far south-west Sydney in the dark of a winter morning. A 20 minute drive with no traffic leads us to our closest railway station. The end (or the beginning) of the line. A guaranteed seat. And there we board the first train of the day, warm and foggy-windowed, and settle down for the ride into the city. Sleepily gazing through the fog at hobby farms owned by now-multi millionaires feeding hungry developers; and the newly developed ridiculously overcrowded homes with no yards on roads with no parking, near the already overused railway.

Soon enough we’re joined by the rich mix of humanity from the closer in suburbs. Islanders, Vietnamese, Arabic and Chinese Aussies off to the markets, ready for the airport with heavy suitcases or out for the day with friends. Lots of noisy chatter, none of it that we can understand. We talk about breakfast, where we want to walk and what we’ll see. It never works out how we plan, and that’s what’s great about aimless travel on a Sunday. 

Suburbia morphs into townhouses, in turn compressing to apartments, and finally rising to skyscrapers. Suddenly we’re underground, the tunnel lights swooping past, counting our carriages as we undermine the city, heading for the Quay. Excitement quivers in our bellies just like it did when we were children, coming in to the big city with our parents, but now, it’s to see Sydney at it’s best. Just starting to glow in the sunrise. That first glimpse of golden water, ferries still snoozing at their wharves, gulls picking through last nights leftovers and preferring something fresh from the water. Sea horses of cast iron fence the station and along the quayside. 

It’s an overbusy crowded smelly port, I remind myself. People don’t care for one another, they have no space, no manners, no humanity. I quote Patterson out loud “And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city; Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all”. A passing jogger turns to see what on earth I’m babbling. 

I’m kidding myself. At dawn on a winter’s Sunday, the Opera Houses shimmers golden. The breeze is clear with a hint of fresh seaweed. Little fish potter amongst green weed on the piers. Only a few joggers occupy the streets. 

Fancy or budget breakfast? 

If we turn right, we can wander along the quayside, pausing to read the inlaid plaques, describing the old shoreline, the port history, and famous people’s quotes describing their love for this place. Past tourist’s overpriced opal shops and genuine engraved boomerang vendors, hats made of rabbit felt or kangaroo leather; all closed, thank goodness, they can keep their expensive junk. And there we can sit by the still awesomely wonderful shapes and colours of the Opera House, one way looking at the white tiled sails, the other over the water to the iconic Harbour Bridge, it’s lights just extinguished in the morning glow, with groups of tiny human ants, trekking up and down its curves. The Opera Bar understands it’s worth, but its worth it.

Or if we turn left, we head towards the Rocks, the roots of Sydney, history preserved and given a facelift. Sandstone warehouses now pubs, offices, homes and stores. Maybe a massively overproportioned dazzlingly white cruise liner tied up with leg-thickness ropes, fuelling up and waiting for its excited population.

Wandering past the contemporary art gallery and into the carved out streets of the headland, there’s an old fashioned family run café. Breakfast is ten dollars for a hearty toast, egg and bacon with tomato and mushrooms and a big mug of heart-starter coffee. Stumbling back onto the streets, belly full, now bustling with the Sunday Rocks Markets, a couple of blocks long full of everything you never realised you wanted, but now you really do. And some amazing rock candy. How do they make that?! 

The bridge grows out of the headland with rock becoming steel arch, industrial grey and thousands of ball sized rivets defying gravity and the now sapphire water. 

When Sydney glows she dazzles. The water is the bluest blue, the sky competing. The Opera house utterly white. The sea breeze cold with a hint of whale watching. Quirky Victorian sandstone and gargoyles hold their own next to reflective glass towers. And somehow it is just bloody magnificent!

We turn back towards the station. There are too many people. They can’t read the ferry timetable signs and get lost, bumping into each other in the rush. The boats are pumping out diesel fumes warming up for the day’s labour. Buses are doing their darndest to avoid pedestrians. 

And the moment disintegrates. It’s just the city again. All the stuff we hate. And we head home to the grass, the dogs, the veggie patch and the ducks. And we know we saw Sydney at its best.