Paul Martin - Travels with Bertha: Two Years Exploring Australia in a 1978 Ford Station Wagon

Arriving into Sydney, my blood turned cold. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a police bloodhound bounding down the airport concourse and suddenly stop at my backpack. Clouded by jet-lag and nerves, I just knew hed sniff out my box of muesli and Id be deported for smuggling before Id properly set foot in the country. But he soon just waddled off like the carefree puppy he seemed to be. When I declared my suspect package to the customs official moments later, he seemed just as unfazed. I reckon we might just be able to let that one go, mate. And with a laconic smile, I was waved into Australia.

But on the shuttle bus into town, my anxiety returned. This was late June, midwinter in Australia something Id neglected to bear in mind during my exhaustive travel preparations and peering out the rain-speckled window all I could see was a grey, wet city. A glimpse of the harbour bridge appeared through a gap in two far-off buildings, so I knew this had to be Sydney. But what about the sunshine, surfie beaches and easy living Id heard so much about? By the time we pulled up outside a rundown hostel in Kings Cross, in what was obviously a red-light district, I was getting very concerned. Just what was going on?

Kings Cross lies about two kilometres from the centre of the city. Cut through Hyde Park, travel up the rising expanse of King William Street, turn left at the enormous flashing neon Coca-Cola sign, and you hit the strip clubs, fast food restaurants, backpacker hostels and many late-night bars of the Cross. Kings Cross is frequented by sailors, drug addicts, transvestites, strippers, hookers and crime gangs but, undeterred, thousands of backpackers seem to check into its many hostels each year. Because, despite appearances, it is a very safe and authentic introduction to backpacker Australia.

Throwing my backpack on the one undishevelled bed in the shabby hostel dorm, I quickly went out to meander around Kings Crosss chilly streets for several hours, before returning to the hostel to sleep off my jet-lag. Waking up in the early evening, I heard someone moving around the room. Glancing up from my jacket, which was doubling up as my bedcover Id yet to buy a sleeping bag and the hostel management obviously saw no need for blankets I saw a blue face peering up at me sorrowfully from beneath a 1990s Take That haircut. Then unbidden, in thick Yorkshire, it spoke.

I am right, arent I? the voice asked mournfully. This is Australia? Well I thought this place were meant to be warm. Cos back ome I watch Ome and Away and you never see any of them bastards wearing a sweater, now do ya? Well sod them, Im freezing!

And so I met Rob.

Rob seemed to be having a hard time with the weather. Hed been on holidays in Australia three years before and had encountered a much different climate. Hed flown in at noon, made his way straight down to Bondi beach, enjoyed unprotected sunshine for several hours, and then spent the next three days in bed with second-degree sunstroke.

Consequently, this time hed decided to travel light and now hadnt a single sweater or jacket among the mound of T-shirts and jeans falling out of his backpack . But it was a cold winter night, our hostel room was very well ventilated, and he was frozen, miserable and jet-lagged. I gave him a present of my spare sweater. Slightly warmer, he grinned at me: Fancy a beer?

Within the hour, Rob had introduced me to Anthony, a friend from home whod already been in the country six months. As an old hand, Anthony immediately took command and determined that a pub-crawl was in order. So we caught a train to Circular Quay and walked along the harbour-side up to the Rocks, the old settlement of Sydney.

Rejuvenated from its badly rundown state in the 1960s and 70s, the Rocks, with its old worldie feel, has now become a prime tourist destination. And its charm is real. Walking through it in the darkness, I gazed up at the names lit up above the pub doors the Lord Nelson, the Duke of Wellington, the Mercantile, the Hero of Waterloo and felt that time had stood still since the days of the First Fleet and the Battle of Trafalgar.

Thats what ya drink in New South Wales, Anthony said, slapping a three-quarter -pint glass of beer in front of me in the Lord Nelson. A schooner! And so began the evening and my two-and-a-half-year stay in Australia.

For the next few hours, Rob and Anthony kept me entertained as they tried to outdo each other with stories about their travels and with gossip about people back home in Leeds. I was all the more amused as Rob had a lisp and Anthony had a stutter. Although theyd known each other for years, both seemed surprised when I mentioned it.

I always knew you t-t-talked funny, Bobble! See, youve a bloody lisp. You c-c-can get help for t-t-that, you know!

Its-s not me who talks-s funny, you daft bas-stard. Didnt you hear him? Youre the one with the bloody s-stutter.

After a few drinks in the Hero of Waterloo, we tumbled out the door in convulsions, only to abruptly fall silent as the spectacle of the underside of the Harbour Bridge appeared, towering massively above us. Craning our necks, we looked up at the enormous metal girders as our breath turned frosty in the night air. Hushed but exhilarated, we made our way quickly to the next pub.

Seeing the Mercantiles two pool tables, Anthony quickly devised a plan. Hed challenge an innocent to a game. Hed lose a small bet on the first game, lose more on a second, and finally, with a greatly increased stake, nail his opponent on the third. I later saw Anthony play sober and he really was an excellent pool player. Unfortunately, by now hed drunk so much that he had difficulty staying on his feet, let alone wield a pool cue in a masterly fashion. So I wasnt surprised when everything went perfectly according to plan until the final game. By then hed lost eighty dollars. Sending Rob rummaging through his pockets, he slammed the peculiar sum of one hundred and twenty-three dollars on the side. As he staggered past me to the table to break, he stuttered softly in my ear: Paul, just like t-t-taking c-c-candy from a baby.