By Tom Adair
A spear of sunlight pierces the curtains. I rise and totter to the window. There in the brightening Queensland distance, beyond the tortured twists and turns of the Brisbane River reflecting the skyline, lies the future:
In seven years’ time this place will be known in every living room on the planet. Its Olympic stadium, (not yet built but recently designated a site in Victoria Park on the city’s north-side), will be the talismanic centre-piece of the upcoming Games of 2032.
That longed for dream to host the Olympics is now a reality, and Brisbane’s latest fame-grab is—to quote the man responsible for bringing those games to life—“to make Brisbane recognised by the world as a Tier-One city.” No small aspiration.
From the lofty, smoked glass windows of my umpteenth-floor hotel room, at 6am, observing the glowing high rise tips of Brisbane’s wealth, I’m struck by the energy and restlessness below: the curving wakes of a fleet of ferries, like tiny toy boats criss-crossing the placid yet perilous river from bank to bank competes for attention with the stream of continuous bodies earnestly running, jogging, power-walking, striding forth with a sense of existential purpose that seems unstoppable.
My hotel, the Crystalbrook Vincent, recently opened, festooned with original works of art, and the modernist, vibrant cultural waterside hub surrounding it, (a nest of re-purposed wharves turned into performance and recreational spaces, new restaurants, a micro-brewery on a prime riverside location that I recall as almost moribund and derelict on my last visit), stand now as irrefutable proof of the city’s surge of self-belief. Back then, fourteen years ago, Brisbane seemed somehow adolescent in its swagger. Today it possesses the grown-up resolve to live out its dream.
Speaking of which, I’m here to live mine. In pursuit of a story—one among many, I’ve come to climb the Story Bridge, named after a Scottish pioneer, John Douglas Story, one of the 19th century founders of this city which stands on the lands of First Nations peoples, the Turrbal and Yuggera.
An imposing, twin-peaked steel structure, heritage listed, spanning the river from Kangaroo Point to Fortitude Valley on the north side, (casting its shadow each afternoon across my bedroom), it stands 243 feet above the river and is the longest cantilever bridge anywhere in Australia. More to the point, the Adventure Bridge Climb, second only to BridgeClimb Sydney, promises windswept, “stunning views…and the thrill of history”. I’m sold.
Latched to the rail as we ascend, (health and safety to the fore), zipped into our jump suits, five rookie climbers, (two clinging newly-wed Americans, two Japanese, myself and jokey climb-leader, Sam, hailing from Devon, working his passage with hopes of settling in Australia), make the first-ascent of the day, Sam spraying facts about the history of settlement: the Scots, the Irish, the English, while directing us to cast our gaze towards the silhouette of the skyline’s chrome and glass totems. Kelsi and Justin, as newly-weds ought, are holding on tight, not looking down. Reader–spoiler alert!—we survived.
Sam earns extra income serving food on a roof-top restaurant (“I do like heights”). He points it out. “There you can safely step off the edge when you’ve finished your meal.” Not sure if he’s jesting, I’m tempted to book.
Instead I go local, to one of the clusters of river view restaurants beneath the bridge, only a step from my hotel at Howard Smith Wharves, the city’s latest and hottest dining spot.
In the course of my week-long stay, I sample them all: Felons, a burger-with-all-the-trimmings joint, where succulence is the watchword. Greca, a stylishly informal waterside ultra-relaxed Greek taverna, serving Mediterranean cuisine (try their chickpea, olive oil and fava dip with crispy pita and a trio of perfectly caramelised lamb chops with Kipfler potatoes). For haute cuisine dining there’s Stanley Restaurant, Cantonese, where the recommended Moreton Bay Bugs, (more subtle than lobster, twice as delicious and served as dumplings), transport you at once to the glitzy food scene of top-end Hong Kong, which is Stanley restaurant’s inspiration. Chopsticks heaven.
My mission has doubled— not just seeking stories, I’m also now hell bent on killing the overload of calories from my rush of over-eating. Jump on a bike, I think, (there’s a rack of them, buckshee, outside my hotel), or join the kayakers I’ve spotted paddling like ducklings every morning under my window, or hang with the kamikaze abseilers on the nearby north shore cliffs?
I opt for the soft approach: a good walk in pleasant company supplied by Local Sauce Tours who feature history, street art, a chocolate stop (!) plus a visit inside a casino, and a drink, on the two hour itinerary. No brainer!
Thus, I meet Saskia, lanky, youthful and fuelled with knowledge, on the boardwalk that fringes the river. In two packed hours of bracing walking I learn about Brisbane’s founding father Sir Thomas Brisbane, a Scot from Ayrshire, (the door of his family castle near Largs is displayed inside Brisbane City Hall). Saskia shows me the half hidden world of Brisbane’s ‘Banksy’- mostly tiny blue installations craftily hidden in alcoves and alleyways—less impressive, I think, than the pavement kangaroos, or the public statues outside City Hall in King George Square.
The stamp of history is ubiquitous here, in murals, on plaques and graffiti–a feast for the eyes. The old Regent Cinema is so opulent and nostalgic it jerks a tear. St Stephen’s Cathedral and the Custom House dome are gems of illumination after dark, must see markers of Brisbane’s embryonic past.
And so to the chocolate stop, macadamias smothered in chocolate—then a visit to the latest Brisbane tourist lure, Star casino, a multiplex glitzy entertainment tower that has changed the city’s skyline.
Seen one casino, you’ve seen them all? The robotic army of attention grabbing fruit machines, nylon carpets, muted lights and an absence of clocks, smells of disappointment—the odour of Vegas! At 4pm the space is void. We go to the viewing platform outside from which the vista of Brisbane River edged by parkland is spectacular. The bridges lie dwarfed before us. The people are specks.
“Fancy that drink?” It’s the end of a hugely enjoyable walk. Only two blocks away, Frogs Hollow tavern is an oasis. The drinks list, (including 4 crammed pages of Scottish malts), is a who’s who of all the great distilleries. But we’re working. We spurn the booze; then Saskia points me to my hotel.
The following morning, my last in the city, dawns dull and wet. I have a hot date–a trip upriver on Mirimar Cruises towards a special Aussie encounter. Among fellow passengers there’s talk that the tropical rain is a stark reminder of Cyclone Alfred, a recent scourge that has blown itself out. Umbrellas are poised. Rainwear unpacked. Then, without warning the torrent ends. Sunshine emerges. We scurry ashore.
Over the rise, behind dripping eucalypts, Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary puddles and steams in dank shadow. Within it wait crocodiles, dingoes, wombats, duck-billed platypus, kangaroos, Australian mammals of so many stripes, birds and amphibians, all in sympathetic habitats. I meet Paige, who introduces me to Caillin who’s cradling my date.
Milton is cuddlesome, seven years old, munching fistfuls of freshly plucked eucalypt leaves, but alert—which is miraculous since Koalas sleep almost 20 hours a day. I stroke his soft back, his head, his shoulders, watching him scratch. “They attract mosquitoes,” Caillin says, while Milton daintily picks the lushest leaves within reach. “What’s that?” I say, stepping back sharply as a water dragon noses around our feet before disappearing into camouflage. Milton ignores it, greedily harvesting more of the 600 grams of leaves he needs every day. “He’s a very good boy,” his keeper says. “I think he’s bit me only once.”
In a dream that night Milton lies on my shoulder. We’re somewhere else. A desert island? And when I awake that ever reliable spear of light falling through the curtain, reaches my luggage—already half packed. It starkly reminds me that my East Coast Adventure south towards Sydney, the Hunter Valley and Illiwara will continue. Alas without Milton.
Stradbroke Island—awaits my footprints. Time to vamoose.
