Sonntag, 14. April 2013
Samstag, 13. April 2013
Sydney II
So viele Eindrücke hier, drum keine Worte zunächst, nur Bilder. Tanti impressioni ci da questa città, ci mancano le parole, allora solo fotos. Too much too find the right words, so just a couple of pictures.
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| da ist mir Bruce grad über den Weg gelaufen... |
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| riesig, das Schiff - jetzt schon unterwegs Richtung Fidji |
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| auf der Manly-Ferry |
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| beim Opal-Laden in "the rocks" |
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| ans Periskop! auf der HMAS Onslow |
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| auf der Brücke der HMAS Vampire |
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| am Steuer der Endeavour |
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| Opernhaus im Abendlicht |
Freitag, 12. April 2013
Reise nach Sydney
Der Weg von Jindabyne führte uns zunächst in die Hauptstadt Canberra. Eine eher kleine Stadt, sehr grün, fast wie Winterthur. Aber eindrückliche Boulevards, die alle auf den Regierungssitz hinführen. Wir gingen diesen besuchen, ein grosser postmoderner Bau, wir durften sogar die beiden Häuser (Senat und Repräsentantenhaus) anschauen. Weiter fuhren wir nach Goulburn. Diese Kleinstadt gilt als erste Stadtgründung im Binnenland (also nicht an der Küste). Und von dort heute nach Syndney - zwei Stunden für die ersten 200km, zwei Stunden für die weiteren 30km durch die Stadt zum Campingplatz am Lake Narabeen, im Norden der Stadt. Il viaggio ci ha portato a Canberra, il capitale del paese. Li abbiamo visitato gli edifici e abbiamo potuto vedere tutte due le camere. Dopo siamo arrivati a Goulburn, un luogo dove la lana merino e un grande commercio. Adesso siamo su un campeggio qualche metro dal ozeano pacifico al nord della città. After the mountains we visited Canberra and went to have a look at and inside the parliament buildings. From there drove to Goulburn and spent the night there. Right now we are on a nice campsite on the Narabeen Lakes, just a few steps away from the pacific ocean.
Donnerstag, 11. April 2013
Sydney
Wir sind jetzt in Sydney, das Bild zeigt den Himmel heute, das Thermometer steht bei angenehmen 24.5 Grad Celsius. Siamo a Sydney, il foto fa vedere il cielo qui, il thermometro sta su 24.5 gradi. We have arrived in Sydney, the picture shows you the sky, the temperature is very pleasant, 24.5 degrees Celcius.
Mittwoch, 10. April 2013
The man from Snowy River
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long a tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend -
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."
So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long a tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend -
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."
So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
Berge
Wir sind in den Bergen. Fast wie daheim, nur dass hier die
Wälder vor allem aus Eukalyptusbäumen bestehen, die heissen hier „mountain
ash“. Die Strassen sind kurvig, heute haben wir einen Pass auf 1560m Höhe
überquert und wir sind jetzt am Ufer des Sees in Jindabyne. Wir wollten von
Melbourne auf kurzem Weg nach Sydney fahren, und statt die ganzen rund 900km
auf der Hume Freeway durchzufahren, haben wir beschlossen, einen Ausflug in die
Berge zu machen. Wir sind also heute am höchsten Berg Australiens, dem Mount
Kosciuszko, der ist 2229m hoch. Hier oben in den Snowy Mountains liegt Thredbo,
ein typischer Berg-Ferienort mit vielen Ferienwohnungen und Einrichtungen. Das
hier ist eines der grossen Skigebiete Australiens. Hier in Jindabyne wird nach
Forellen gefischt im See. Gestern waren wir in der Nähe von Wodonga, einem
grossen Stausee, der jetzt allerdings weit runter geleert wurde und dann im
Winter wieder voll wird. Wir haben sogar die Spuren gesehen von Tallangatta, wo
es vor 50 Jahren stand. Der See liegt am Murray River, der entspringt hier in
den Bergen und ist der grösste Fluss Australiens und bringt für sehr grosse
Regionen das Wasser für die Landwirtschaft. Ganz am Anfang unserer Reise sind
wir über den Murray hinüber mit der Fähre, jetzt sind wir auf der Brücke drüber
gefahren. Die ganzen Berge sind ein grosses System von Tunnels und Seen, das
Wasser wird gefasst und Strom erzeugt. In den Tunnels wird das Wasser, das
früher alles nach Osten abgeflossen ist, gesammelt und auf die Westseite geführt.
Siamo in montagna. Quasi come a casa. Solo che gli alberi qui sono quasi tutti
quelli eucalyptus. Abbiamo fatto un passo alto 1560 metri e abbiamo passato
vicino alla montagna piu alta del paese, il monte Kosciuszko, alto 2229 metri.
Adesso siamo vicino un lago a Jindabyne, qui vanno alla pesca per le trotte.
Wir are on a campsite at Jindabyne after travelling through the snowy
mountains. Much like Switzerland only that the trees here are not like ours,
most of them here are mountain ash. We passed the height of 1560 metres today
and saw Mount Kosciuszko, the highest peak in Australia.
Sonntag, 7. April 2013
Melbourne II
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| Paparazzi Dogs |
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| wir |
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| die Abfahrtszeiten werden mit Uhren angezeigt |
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| Pampasgras |
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| Botanical Gardens |
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| Kräutergarten |
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| Remembrance Shrine |
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| vor dem Regen |
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| Start und Ziel - alles andere ist nicht mehr sichtbar :-( |
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| es regnet... |
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| die Front |
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| the edge - 88 Stockwerke |
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| Skyline |
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| entlang dem Yarra River |
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