A few weeks ago, I was back in Oxford – my home before I moved to Melbourne about 4 years ago. The city of dreaming spires is still as beautiful as ever with punts gliding past, croquet being played on perfectly mown college lawns, church bells ringing and gargoyles looking down from many a bell tower and medieval cloister.  

“This marvellous city can be stifling,” says Elijah Wood, a young American student, in a film called The Oxford Murders also starring John Hurt. I know just how he feels. Dripping with architectural, historic and other wonders, it’s easy to feel a bit stuck in Oxford – walled in.  There’s plenty going on and the city offers plenty of wonderful parks and gardens to escape the hustle and bustle, but it lacks a certain vibe, a certain buzz.

Oxford comprises a curious mix of locals, students and tourists and, in truth, never the three do meet. Perhaps that’s why it lacks oomph and why I ran out of steam.  Perhaps too much beauty, too many bell towers, too many walls and all surrounded by a busy ring road and situated in the low-lying (think damp and fog) Thames Basin.

Don’t get me wrong, I did have fun in Oxford and was lucky enough to have a bunch of wonderful friends and a terrific job as fundraiser at the local Wildlife Trust, but after five years,  I was ready to move on to pastures new.

My first few months in Melbourne were tough but once I got going I found that it pretty much gave me a ticket to dream and to start afresh.  Melbourne has an upbeat feel, a groovy vibe, a certain ‘go for it’ energy. Melbourne is never boring – whether you’re into books, fashion, jazz, comedy, food, horse racing, cricket, art, kite-surfing, wine-tasting, fashion or spending lazy days on the beach – it’s all on offer.

Combined with the Aussie ‘go for it’ attitude and ‘you’ll be right’, it’s the kind of place that allows you to reinvent yourself, have an adventure and see what happens.  Forgive all the cliches, but there’s plenty of space in Australia to spread your wings and experiment. It’s a young, vibrant country  – not so beholden to social convention and tradition as the UK.

But, it’s been fun revisiting all those British customs and traditions, all the pomp and dressing-up. Royal Ascot was on last week – and it was nicknamed Royal Chavscot (Chavs are akin to bogans (sp?!)) and their inadequate dress sense has ruffled upper class sartorial feathers).  Dress code for the Royal Enclosure was tightened up this year following complaints that standards were slipping and hemlines rising.

Mini-skirts, midriff-baring tops, spaghetti straps and halter-neck dressed were all banned on the orders of the Queen’s representative, The Duke of Devonshire. Ladies were also advised that knickers should be worn, but not on show, and that streaky tans are a ‘total fashion faux pas.’  Race-going Melburnians – take heed.

Ok, so I’ve been ‘rhapzodizing’ about England’s countryside, history – and I haven’t started on the food yet (why does it get such a bad press?) – but it’s not all sweetness and light in the land of Pimm’s and cucumber sandwiches.

Since I arrived 3 weeks ago, the weather has been dire with only infrequent patches of sun and I’ve hardly had the chance to peel of the jeans and bare a leg.  Over the Bank Holiday weekend at the end of May, many of the festivities such as the Hay Festival were miserable, rain-drenched, thundery affairs.

And just before the Bank Holiday, I read in The Independent that 18 million cars were due on the roads and more than 30 sets of engineering works were expected on the railways. Nothing changes…..

And if you do manage to pick a road that is not grid-locked with traffic, there’s the problem of soaring petrol and diesel prices to deal with.  The cost of filling a Renault Espace with diesel now costs £23 more than it did a year ago.

Rising petrol and food prices are all part of the ‘Credit Crunch’: a much-used phrase in the press and everyday conversation.  It’s probably biting harder in the North than in the affluent South East – in the small Nottinghamshire town of Retford, one shop was advertising a special 50% off ‘credit crunch ‘ sale.  I have experienced severe bladder crunch at several railway stations. You can’t have a pee for less than 30p nowadays and so it’s bad luck if you don’t have the right change.

Terry Wogan is still hosting the Eurovision Song Contest – although apparently the voting is heavily rigged – and Cherie Blair has washed her dirty linen in public by publishing her memoirs with the me, me, me title of ‘Speaking for Myself.’  Broadcast on Book of the Week on Radio 4 (what were they thinking?), she reveals when and how baby Leo was conceived. She left her contraceptive equipment at home on a visit to Balmoral to avoid embarrassment. She goes on to explain that when the royal valets unpack ‘one’s’ suitcase, they lay out all ‘one’s’ belongings. But she and Tone nevertheless decided to rock the castle – as if we want to know…..

The papers have also been full of the dodgy deal made by Peter Phillips (Princess Anne’s son) and his Canadian bride, Autumn Kelly. They negotiated a £500,000 deal with Hello magazine to feature their wedding. Many think their sell-out to the airbrushed world of the celebrity magazine was very vulgar and that the Queen was an unwitting victim of the deal. Who knows – maybe the Queen is feeling the Credit Crunch and needed some extra funds!

Maybe I am looking at dear Old Blighty through rose-tinted, tourist spectacles, but I’m drinking in the history, the soft, lush, green….and damp countryside/

Less than 24-hours after landing, I am back in medieval Britain at Rufford Park in Nottinghamshire. Once a Cistercian Abbey and the inspiration for Wragby Hall in D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley, it is the perfect setting for the re-enactment of medieval life during the 12th to 15th centuries. The volunteers representing the Knights Hospitallers really look the part with their plump, pallid faces peeking out under their hooded garments.

Pease Pottage is bubbling in a cauldron, the apothecary’s stand is adorned with hops, comfrey and other herbs, women are combing wool, the blacksmith is smelting silver while others demonstrate how to use a maul – a mean piece of equipment comprising a long wooden pole inset with hobnails around the base. It was used to fend off marauders or to whack the legs of an approaching enemy horse.  I take a photograph of a man easing himself into a suit of chain mail and watch while he flexes his bow in readiness for battle.

At the Harley Gallery, part of the Welbeck Estate and housed in the 5th Duke of Portland’s gasworks, I marvel at exhibits including the gloves worn by Charles I for his execution and the consecrated cup from which he drank his last communion.

Still in Nottinghamshire, we visit All Saints’ Church in the village of Babworth. Richard Clyfton, a separatist,  was Rector here from 1585 to 1605 and was instrumental in starting the Pilgrim Movement.

From Nottinghamshire my parents and I travel to the River Test in Hampshire – it is one of the best fly-fishing rivers in England.  Dad is the angler, but Mum and I are mere spectators and there for the birdlife, peace, tranquility and picnic lunches. We catch a glimpse of a kingfisher – a quick shot of turquoise and bronze – and swans with cygnets riding on their backs. Sedge warblers flit between the reeds, their song strident and metallic compared to the complex song (Dad compares it to Bach’s music) of the blackcap, which like the cuckoo, we hear but don’t see.

Buttercups stain our shoes yellow as we track Dad’s progress up and down the bank, squelching across ancient water meadows. Run by the John Lewis Partnership, the Leckford Estate has 14 beats and all are beautifully maintained with mown paths.   Herons strut their stuff, orange-tipped butterflies flit about and wild irises grow on the banks. But we are here for the Mayfly, a creature that spends most of its life as a nymph at the bottom of the river  before emerging in May for a brief 24-hours to mate, lay eggs and die. Like butterflies with long, dangling tails, once the Mayfly hatch, the trout start to rise and it’s time to do some serious fishing.

As we drive to and from our country Bed & Breakfast complete with springer spaniel and large, well-stocked garden, we pass through idyllic villages with thatched cottages, country gardens and 12th century churches with cemeteries full of crumbling, moss-covered tomb stones. The scenery reminds me of the picture on one of those old-fashioned shortbread tins, but it’s for real. To steal from Rupert Brooke, it has that stamp of Forever England.

When I visited Western Australia for the first time in May 2003, ecotourism was still a realatively new concept.  Ningaloo Reef Retreat, 70 kilometres south of Exmouth (think whale sharks), was my first foray into the world of sustainable, green, responsible and eco-educational travel.

Billed as a Wilderness Camp, Ningaloo Reef was comfortable with its safari-style tents and queen-size beds but didn’t otherwise pander too much to softies and city slickers. The real luxury lay in being surrounded by wildlife 24/7. Ghost crabs scuttle in the sand at night, crickets chatter, you might bump into a kangaroo on a torch-lit visit to the very clean, sealed-system compost toilet, and in the morning you wake to birds wheeling overhead. By day, snorkelling around the Blue Lagoon ( a short kayak trip away) or around the turtle pools just metres from the shore, reaps rich and multicoloured rewards of the fin and gill variety.

Now, green tourism is a growing market with opportunities to sample ecotourism at all levels and all prices, from designer eco-lodges to more modest and hands-on camps and retreats where you can get involved in conservation projects.

One of the new kids-on-the-block is the Karjini Eco Retreat. The Karijini National Park is in the Pilbara region of Western Australia, inland from the mining town of Karratha. There were no luxury tents with king-size beds, ensuites and well-stocked food and drink outlets when I visited  with Snappy Gum Safaris in April 2003. 

With limited time to spare, and inspired by Fred Williams’ paintings of the iron ore-producing Hamersley Ranges,  I settled on The Karijini National Park as it was closer than the Kimberley, but promised similar terrain: steep gorges, copper-red earth and swimming holes. 

When the two guys from Snappy Gum Safaris came to pick me up in Karratha (I was staying at the Mercure Hotel after an unpleasant exchange with the woman at Karratha Backpackers), I noticed there was no one else in the car. “Just me?” I asked politely.  ”Yes,”  they answered, perhaps a little snappily,  adding that it was not really viable for them to be taking only one passenger.  A lack of moolah and all that. The conversation moved on to their hangovers -  one of them  was nursing a bandaged leg after coming off a motorbike the night before, and both of them were slurping iced coffee.

I have forgotten their names, or perhaps I have wiped them from my memory, so for the purposes of this story I will call them SG1 and SG 2. SG as in Snappy Gum. 

Was it five hour’s drive or three? I forget, but do remember that the long, red, gravel road tracks the Tom Price Railway Road. We stopped here and there for SG 1 and 2 to smoke and arrived in the Park by lunchtime.  

We stopped at a couple of swimming holes, the vibrant green of the ferns beautifully offset by the rusty red of the rocks. Positioning myself under mini waterfalls I let the jets of water massage my neck and shoulders and ease away the passive hangover vibes. So far, so good.

During the afternoon I admired the workmanship of a huge termite mound, at least twice my size,  and took a picture of a lone drop dunny plonked on the hillside. Confirming all my whingeing Pom prejudices, the dunny came complete with a redback sitting obligingly in a web spun across the seat.  All that was lacking was the voiceover for the Castlemaine XXXX ad.

That evening we set up camp in the car park area. Dinner was pretty ordinary – budget kangaroo and cask wine and not enough green stuff. I bet the Karijini Eco Retreat serves up groovy bush tucker and good wines. But for these guys I was not a money making proposition so why waste fancy ingredients?

As it happened I helped ‘facilitate’- let’s use some managment speak – a bit of extra business for them. The place seemed almost deserted, but out of nowhere four young people approached us asking about The Miracle Mile. Dollar signs appeared in SG 1 and 2’s eyes!

Whatever The Miracle Mile was – wait and see, you’ll love it was all I got from mine hosts – you needed guides to do it. Sounded rather intriguing to me, and no of course I wouldn’t mind – how could I object? The deal was signed and sealed, and the young foursome, two guys, two girls, Canadian and Irish, I think, agreed to meet us early the next morning.

Time for bed. SG 1 and 2 rolled out my mat and swag under a tree and hung a mosquito net from a branch. The mosquito net had more holes than a string vest, but I knew I mustn’t whinge. SG 1 and 2 rolled out their beds nearby and we wished each other a good night. Tanked up with cask wine, SG 1 and 2 were in the land of nod way before me, but I eventually drifted off only to be woken in the night by SG1 shouting.

I offered soothing words until I realised he was sleep-talking and not re-enacting some childhood trauma. Now fully awake, I needed a pee. I wandered off with my torch to a suitable patch of spinifex grass . Mission accomplished, I completely lost my bearings – one spinifex bush looks much like another – and couldn’t find my way to the camp.

Brought up on apocryphal stories about Australia being the land of killer bugs, beasts and all things that creep and crawl, I panicked. Was that a dingo I could hear? What would happen if I trod on a snake? I shouted – ‘”Hello – sorry – are you over there?” Silence. The cask wine was still working its magic on the boys.

Eventually I got back to base and snuggled thankfully back into my swag. Woken by the piercing, liquid notes of a bird (I never did find out what it was), we had a skimpy breakfast (if I had know what I was in for, I would have eaten three times as much), and packed up leaving only footprints and tiny blobs of spat out toothpaste on the spinifex bushes where we had cleaned our teeth. In that respect, our camp qualifed for the eco label.

The Miracle Mile started well. Climbing down a long, rusty ladder we descended the first gorge. I soon realised why we needed hard hats as we negotiated steep, narrow ledges of terraced rock, the water swirling rapidly below us. Like huge, jagged chimney stacks the rocks rose above us and we crept along rock walls, carefully placing feet and hands, inching along.

At one point we were spread-eagled between the narrow walls of a gorge, the rock a dizzying pattern of striated layers all around us.

The bright young things were in their element, whooping for joy the more precarious it became and setting dares for each other. SG 1 and 2 joined in the fun and encouraged daredevil jumping off rocks into the pools below. Trying to ungrit my teeth, I kept going reminding myself to enjoy the scenery and stop and smell the roses. At one point I slipped and grazed my knee – nothing in itself – but this wasn’t a place to be slipping. I later learnt that people have fallen to their deaths doing the Miracle Mile.

The going did get easier in places and, at some points, we stripped down to our bathers and swam across ice-cold rock pools, the water almost aquamarine, but limb-numblingly cool. 

About halfway through the epic journey, I began to feel weak and hungry; a mixture of nerves, lack of sleep and physical exertion. And, then I realised that I felt lonely – that lonely in a crowd thing. SG1 and 2 had each other, and the young travellers had obviously bonded as travellers do, whereas I felt like a little shadow creeping along behind.

Towards the end I relaxed my grip a bit and slipped again. My inner child wanted to have a good old ‘poor me’ cry, but not in front of this lot. No, time to be brave. So in a final spurt of adrenal energy, I clenched my teeth one more time and hauled myself up to the top.

Back at the car, I devoured an apple and a biscuit and felt instant blood sugar relief. But, after so much gritting of the teeth,  I also managed to break a tooth.  Perhaps that’s what happens if you don’t relax and go with the flow. …

Needless to say, back at the Mercure Hotel, all was rosy in the garden. Hot shower, picnic supper from Woolworths, clean sheets, happy in my own company and no sleep-shouting snappy gums. Bliss!