Sisto Malaspina has seen a few changes in old Melbourne in the forty-five years he has been running Pellegrini’s espresso bar. “From time to time I try to make some minor changes inside too. I try to repaint, decorate a bit – maybe a bit of minor renovation you know?” he smiles. “But I get in so much trouble from the locals. They see this as their bar now – and in a sense it is. ‘Don’t you dare change a thing Sisto,’ they warn me!”

On one extraordinarily long day that’s actually three, David Whitley visits two famous beaches on two continents.

With the possible exception of Santa Monica, Malibu Beach is arguably the most famous beach in the United States. In a way, it is indicative of Los Angeles’ sprawl – it feels like an incredibly long, stressful drive to downtown from there, but it is still regarded as part of the city. The Malibu sands stretch out for miles as well, prettying up the development that spreads along the California coastline north of LA.

David Whitley returns to Australia’s Hunter Valley wine region and shamelessly plumps for exactly what he did three years ago.

As a general rule, travel is about the thrill of the new. Exploring new horizons, sampling new experiences and making discoveries is generally where the thrill comes from. But sometimes a bit of what’s familiar can be just as rewarding.

One of my favourite places in the world is a small (but very stylish) bed and breakfast in the middle of Australia’s Hunter Valley. The Hunter Valley Cooperage (huntervalleycooperage.com) sits right in amongst the vines, and I’ve found few greater pleasures than tucking into Gay and Warren’s top grade breakfasts as the morning sun bathes the vineyard in that fresh, happy light of a new Australian day.

David Whitley explores the mushrooming small bar scene in Australia’s biggest city – and discovers that a change of licensing laws has led to drinking dens with character.

There’s no carpet on the floor, the walls have their brick gleefully exposed, and all around are the heads of moose, cows and wild boar. The man with the enormous comedy moustache at the bar takes his time describing the range of drinks on offer, genuinely knowing his stuff and says it’s fine if we want to bring some food in. Shady Pines is an audacious attempt to bring a semi-ironic saloon bar to an underground cellar just off Sydney’s gay epicentre, Oxford Street. It’s in a quiet side lane, and the signage consists of a single bit of paper with the name scrawled on.

David Whitley steels himself for a dose of radiation at Australia’s most controversial uranium mine.

If there’s one stretch of water that I really don’t want to go swimming in, it’s the tempting-looking billabong in front of me. Except it’s not a billabong. It’s a ‘retention pond’, and it belongs to what is arguably the most controversial mine in the world.

Wicked Wanda rolls us steadily northward through a brief and (ultimately) friendly run-in with an Aussie highway patrolman. You have to watch the gas on the Pacific Highway though – the road is well-maintained, clear and (for the most part) un-crowded, but compared with European speed limits you are expected to go excessively slow.  Wanda spent a couple of restful nights at Byron Bay while I surfed a wave that I had long heard about. Then we took to the hills again on a beautiful looping drive to Nimbin. The vibe in Byron is pretty much chilled to perfection but nearby Nimbin – Hippy HQ – seems to be trying just a touch too hard to maintain its laidback reputation.

Travelling by steam train is like stepping back in time. Passengers scurry along the platform, checking numbers written in chalk on the side of carriages. A red carpet is laid out, and an attendant takes an older lady’s hand to assist her over the gap, while tickets are clipped by attendants in shiny black caps.

I am sad to part company with Wicked Wanda. She looks like a bit of a minx but has been about as reliable a road-trip travelling buddy as you could ask for. And, with pretty much her entire body covered with acid-trip tattoos, she has certainly turned heads. There have been a few whistles and stares as we rolled through towns like Byron Bay, Surfers Paradise and Noosa Heads.

David Whitley tries to fight off a hangover with a yoga lesson and Sydney’s most famous walk.

It’s always good to try out something new, although yoga on a quite staggering hangover wasn’t quite what I had in mind. Well, if anything’s going to test the discipline’s supposedly restorative powers, it’s two hours’ sleep and a tongue so furry that it could be mistaken for a new species of badger. The 5000-year-old art undoubtedly has a helping hand, however. We’re at one of Australia’s most iconic destinations; Bondi Beach in Sydney. What’s more, we’re at Iceberg’s – the premier destination for the discerning Sydneysider that likes to get fit, but hang out with the cool people at the same time. It’s a swimming centre next to Bondi Beach, but somehow much more than that. Imagine a semi-exclusive club, but with trunks, and you’re closer to the mark.

David Whitley defies local advice and heads to Australia’s national capital to find out why everyone hates it so much.

If Australia has one over-arching national sport, it is slagging off Canberra. Tell just about any Australian that you’re going to the national capital and they’ll probably come out with a considerably more sweary version of “what on earth would you want to go there for?” Canberra, it is fair to say, doesn’t have a particularly good reputation. It is seen as a plastic, artificial city which has only one redeeming feature: acting as a holding pen for politicians.

David Whitley recalls what was supposed to be his first day at a new job in Australia

It’s all OK. It must be something to do with flight paths, or the curvature of the earth or something. Everything’s going to be just fine. The little twelve-seater plane, powered by two particularly energetic hamsters, has chugged its way into the sky, and has just broken from the land to head out over the sea. Having looked at the map, it’s possibly not the route I’d have chosen to get from Bundaberg to Brisbane, but he’s the pilot; he knows these things much better than I. Besides, he has a very official-looking hat, and no-one would give one of them to someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing. Would they?

One person who knows the forests and swamps of Fraser Island intimately is Uncle Joe. Better known as Jo-Jo – or simply ‘Cuz’ – to his boss Norman at Scrub Hill Tours, Uncle Joe is certainly one of the best Aboriginal guides in Australia. He’s toured much of the country already Norman claims that he has been ‘head-hunted’ as a guide in the Top End where another mob was so impressed with his knowledge that they virtually tried to kidnap him. With his toothless grin and gnarled, oakwood features Uncle Joe’s infectious laughter also makes him a perfect guide.

“A lot of strange versions have gone around concerning the history of Fraser Island...but I like mine best. So sit back, fasten your seat belts and listen closely. Here we go.” With his ruddy northern European complexion and his strong Austrian accent, Fritz Leeb is not the typical Aussie bush-guide. Thirty-odd years living in Queensland have done little to mellow that accent but there can be few people who know Fraser Island better than Fritz.

David Whitley gets a nosebleed as he enters a kitchen and tries to cook pasta from scratch...

Toni, it would be fair to say, has her work cut out. She is faced with possibly the laziest, most hapless cook on the face of the planet. Her new protégé is someone who’d much sooner reach for the takeaway menu or eat out than bother to faff around in the kitchen. If I’ve no other option, then pasta will usually come straight out of a bag and be tipped into boiling water. If ‘cooking’ for myself, then prodding cellophane with a fork and waiting for the sound of the microwave ping always seems much more expedient.

Byron Bay’s Great Northern Hotel is situated just a bare couple of miles from mainland Australia’s most easterly point.  The obvious paradox in the name is matched by the fact that the Great Northern is not even a hotel. In-keeping (no pun intended) with old-time licensing laws that restricted the sale of alcohol only to hotels, the Great Northern is one of many thousand Aussie bars that still call themselves hotels.

David Whitley attempts to conquer the rapids in Kangaroo Valley, hoping he can add a wombat to his collection of goannas.

You have to admire the Australian attitude towards health and safety at times. Sat in a car park by the castle-like Hampden Bridge, I’m told that I shouldn’t take anything valuable in the kayak with me. “The bit at the back isn’t 100% waterproof,” I’m instructed. But what on earth should I do with my car keys? “Leave ‘em on top of the back tyre. No-one will nick it round here.”

Despite its Neighbours-enhanced reputation of people playing cricket in the street and constantly rustling up barbies, Australia isn’t continually swathed in sunshine and beautiful blue skies. Sydney, for example, gets quite a lot of rain (although it does tend to come at once rather than in the form of perpetual drizzle and grey skies). The problem with this is that most of Sydney’s celebrated highlights – harbour cruising, Bondi to Coogee walk, Botanic Gardens, sitting on the beach etc – are all wholesome outdoor pursuits. So what do you do in Sydney when it’s absolutely shafting it down? Well, here are a few suggestions...

It is one of the fundamental rules of abseiling that your harness should be a good snug fit. I wrenched the blue nylon cords as tight as possible. And then gave them another determined tug. It's not the done thing in the macho world of extreme abseiling to ask for a hug before you 'go over the edge'...but that's exactly what I needed. Tasmania's Gordon Dam is the site of the world's highest commercial abseil. To put it in perspective, stepping over the safety barrier on top of this 140 metre-high concrete wall is like climbing out of a window in the middle floor of the Empire State Building.

Sydney is one of those truly great cities that can be a holiday destination in itself. You can spend months there and still find new things to do. Even if you’ve already visited once, chances are that there’s a heck of a lot you’ve missed out on. So, for those who’ve done the usual harbour, Bondi, Watson’s Bay and Manly Ferry schtick already, here are a few suggestions to try for when you go back to Sydney.

David Whitley fights the jetlag in Sydney by surrendering to what the city does best – splashing around in the water.

It’s 6.30am, and I’ve already been awake for two-and-a-half hours. Such are the joys of jetlag. Eventually, I’ve given up trying to get back to sleep and figured that if I’m wide awake, I may as well use that awakeness. Hence I’m stood at the edge of the Andrew Boy Charlton pool – arguably the most beautifully-sited public swimming pool in the whole world. It sits on the cusp of Sydney’s Botanic Gardens, looking out over the harbour and the warships at Woolloomooloo.

Our run-in with Aussie wildlife continues. Yesterday I was sitting on my surfboard, enjoying a blissful, sun-blessed pause between sets at Byron Bay. The great curving arc of sand that reaches, almost unbroken, from Cape Byron (Australia’s easternmost point) around Byron Bay and Belongil Beach stretched out behind me. Ahead of me there was little to interrupt those thousands of miles of watery horizon before the coast of South America.

David Whitley discovers the importance of Australia’s longest river

I have to confess that, before I visited, I didn’t understand why Australians mythologized the Murray River so much. In Australia, the Murray is regarded as the blood that pumps through the nation’s veins. It is almost always known as the ‘Mighty Murray’ and its fortunes are a constant source of debate. But the river’s significance isn’t something you see – it’s something you hear. Stood amongst hundreds of red gum trees in a patch of forest along the Murray’s south bank, I finally understand as dusk falls. The sound of the birdsong is cacophonous. Cockatoos and galahs screech away as if they own the place, and it’s to a degree that I’ve never witnessed elsewhere in Australia. It’s the sound of life – and the Murray River is what provides it.

David Whitley reins in his prejudices about frightful commoners, and throws himself into Australia’s mass tourism hotspot.

There are many ways to see the Gold Coast, in fact it’s doubtful that any method of milking the tourist dollar or yen has not yet been stumbled upon, but the Aquaduck has to be the most bizarre. A former military amphibious assault vehicle, it has been dressed up to look like a cartoon duck. It’s the size of a bus, it travels on both land and water, and most importantly, it quacks. Which if you speak duck is extremely handy, as with the motor running and the wind howling through the back, you’ve got no hope of hearing what’s going on in any other language.

There really is no escape from the wildlife here. One of my friends hides in the hammock to avoid the one metre long lizard as it walks across the deck. The wallabies bolt across the track as you head down to the water. It’s a battle to keep the possums out of the rubbish bin. And forget about leaving your breakfast unattended for even a moment- the cockatoos will swoop in and take it from you.

There are moments in life when you feel free. Often they happen when you travel, which might explain why so many of us keep pouring all our hard earned cash into the next trip, thirsty for the next mind-blowing epiphany or adrenaline filled rush. For me, one of those moments happened when I was riding along the beach on the North-Eastern Coast of Australia.

It was a pretty normal morning. The sky was a solid, cloudless blue, the water was crystal clear, and the sunlight bounced off its surface like golden fireworks. I could feel myself getting sunburnt at 9am, and diving under a foaming, crashing and curling wave was a better wake up call than any cup of coffee I’d ever had in my life. It was paradise- and it was just an average day at Byron bay.

Driving up the Pacific Highway from Sydney to Byron Bay is like taking a snapshot of a country in transition. Back in the day, small towns and businesses were built to cater for the heavy traffic heading up and down the coast. Kilometre by kilometre these towns have dried up, now just little off-road ramps as the government has put in safer roads and built bypasses along he highway.

Don’t want to get caught by the tourist traps? Well, David Whitley has a few Aussie alternatives that are probably a better bet for what you’re seeking.

Rainbow Beach

Alternative to? Hervey Bay

Hervey Bay is seen as the main jumping off point for Fraser Island trips, and has turned into something of a backpacker party capital as a result. That’s great if you want to drink cheap lager in backpacker bars to the tune of the Black Eyed Peas, but Hervey Bay isn’t exactly blessed with bags of charm. The mistake, of course, is to believe that the only way of getting to Fraser Island is via Hervey Bay. It isn’t. In fact, it’s not even the quickest way. The ferry crossing from Rainbow Beach is much less time-consuming, and Rainbow Beach is arguably a much better jumping-off point for Fraser. To call it a town would be pushing things a little too far, but it’s a laid back little settlement surrounded by colourful sand dunes, and feels like a much nicer spot to kick back in.

Paddling out the back of the surf as the sun hits the East Coast of Australia, it’s easy to think you’ve entered nirvana. The waves curl in perfect sets to the shore, there’s an offshore wind steadying the swell, a pod of dolphins flipping around in the surf and barely anyone else competing for the waves. For surfers, it’s bliss.

Most backpackers travelling the East coast of Australia will head straight to Byron Bay to drink at the Top Pub, dance the night away at Cheeky Monkeys and nurse their hangover the next day on the beach. However, if there is one thing you should not miss while you are up in Byron and surrounds it is the local markets.

David Whitley faces the ghosts of the convict – and tragically more recent – past at Port Arthur in Tasmania.

At a certain point in time, the name ‘Port Arthur’ would be enough to strike fear into many a heart. If Tasmania was a convict settlement, then Port Arthur was the spot where those who the system hadn’t worked for got sent. In other words, it was the place where the bad boys who continued to be bad boys were kept. Nowadays, this isolated Tasmanian outpost is the perfect spot to get a chilling insight into the whole transportation system and Australia’s European-era history.

David Whitley raises a glass to the unwilling pioneers who first settled in Australia back in 1788.

Captain Cook wasn’t, as many people believe, the first person to discover Australia. The Aboriginal people who’d been on the continent for 50,000 years might have something to say about that, but Dutch and Portuguese explorers had been here way before Cook arrived in 1770.

David Whitley manages to ruin someone’s kayaking adventure on one of Australia’s most incredible beaches.

Strolling down the beach, we encounter a small group that has just returned from kayaking. They’re pointing at the water, and suddenly a turtle’s head pops up. We’re concentrating more on a long strip of rocks; one that appears to be moving. Soon enough, the turtles disappear and the 4ft long chain of rocks makes off down the coastline. “Do you reckon that’s a croc?” I ask the kayakers. They haven’t seen it, but worried looks start to spread over their face. It’s the look of someone who realises they may have just had a narrow escape.

David Whitley takes a ferry to one of Australia’s most popular holiday islands, and discovers that there may be more wildlife than he bargained for.

The earnest German chap is trying to be helpful but, in reality, his efforts have the opposite effect. “Be careful on the track,” he says. “I just saw a snake.” Marvellous. Absolutely marvellous. It may, of course, be a friendly snake, but there’s more than a decent chance that it’s a death adder. Which, as the name would suggest, is very much a Naughty Snake. It makes for an interesting dilemma. You see, the wildlife I actually want to spot along the track generally hangs out above eye level. So I can either keep my eyes glued to the ground, missing any koalas but getting plenty of advance warning if I encounter a death adder. Or I can look up, merrily gawp at the koalas and realise that it’s not a twig I’ve stepped on until too late.

David Whitley embarks on a stand-off with one of Australia’s ‘native’ dogs.

It stands in front of us with an air of wary menace. It’s a stand-off. At one end of the path is a pathetic shower of wimps, clad in shorts and sun-hats and at the tail end of a substantial walk through the sand dunes.

David Whitley encounters the guardian to Australia’s wild north, and gets a glimpse of true adventurer’s country.

Half in the murky water and half on the bank, Fat Albert lies in wait. He is enormous, and has an aura surrounding him that only the true king of the river can have. The pilot of our boat is justifiably wary. He wants to get close enough for us all to be able to have a good look, but not so close that Albert can suddenly turn into a problem. And, by problem, he means “man-eater”. The Daintree River’s biggest crocodile is approximately five metres long, and as our guide concedes, he’s more than capable of clambering up the side of the boat, toppling it or getting in.

In Australia’s Northern Territory, David Whitley finds that a different mindset is required to truly appreciate a unique National Park that often leaves visitors mildly disappointed.

Though frequently touted as perhaps the greatest of Australia’s natural treasures, the Kakadu National Park doesn’t win you over immediately. There are some incredible lookouts to head for, and there are a few fabulous waterfalls, but it’s not the sort of place to come to for quick fixes. If you blunder in just wanting a few postcard shots to say you’ve ‘done’ it, you’re probably going to end up disappointed with the sprawling miles of woodland, the odd rocky outcrop and the vast floodplains.

David Whitley goes back to the past in Ballarat to discover the gold-mining industry that helped shape Australia.

In European terms, Australia really isn’t that old. The first permanent British settlers arrived in 1788, and the country has not taken long to go from an outpost penal colony at the end of the earth to rich first world nation.In the early days, the place that would later become known as Australia was heavily subsidised by Britain – it was an extension of the prison service after all. But as more and more settlers arrived, industries started up. The three main money-spinners were sealing, whaling and sheep farming; enough to bring in big money for those in charge, but not exactly anything to get excited about for the outside world.

David Whitley finds himself surprised by one of Australia’s unheralded journey-breakers.

A wrong turning takes us down a side road and into the driveway of a motel. Guarding it stands a kangaroo, who looks at us and clearly decides that our car is bigger than him. He bounds off through the grounds, acting as our guide towards the exit. Anywhere else, following a kangaroo through a motel would be a little odd. But in the Grampians it somehow fits. The area – named after the mountains in Scotland – is a green oasis in the sea of monotonous wheat-growing country that is western Victoria. Approximately three hours away from Melbourne by car, it acts as a breath of fresh air for city dwellers, a playground for walkers and climbers – and a haven for wildlife.

David Whitley rocks up in the Queenland town of Maryborough to find it suspiciously deserted...

Bank holiday Mondays are usually quiet affairs, but the one I arrived in Maryborough on was suspiciously so. The tourist information office was closed, the streets looked deserted and it was as if everyone was tucked up at home nursing a hangover. The reason for this soon became clear upon looking at the newspaper headlines. The previous day, Maryborough had entered the Guinness World Record books for hosting the world’s biggest ever pub crawl. This may seem a little odd. After all, Maryborough is just a small country town, and previous record holders have included London and New York. It’s also a rather genteel place. It is known for its historic buildings, riverboat cruises and railway heritage. It’s universally agreed to be an exceptionally pleasant place.

David Whitley takes a look at the 50,000 year old history of Aboriginal Australia and the issues that still face the country’s indigenous population today.

It is often said that Australia lacks culture. This is rather ironic, as it’s home to the longest continual human culture on earth. It is thought that Australia has been inhabited for over 50,000 years by Aboriginal groups, and the indigenous way of life continued largely uninterrupted until European colonisation. Since then, a series of cultural differences and questionable decisions have created a number of issues for the Aboriginal community that still resonate today.

David Whitley tries to rectify his overindulgence in Noosa, Queensland, and finds that he’s got an enormous game of catch-up to play.

It was probably an error to look in the mirror in the first place. After all, the steak had just looked too good to resist. Same with the dessert. And all those ice cream stalls. And the fudge bought at the market. What I was presented with was not so much a six pack, but a big wobbly bag of wine. I was in shape, but that shape was round.

My trip to the south west region of WA left me with bruises all over my legs and reduced me to tears - for all the right reasons. Located down the bottom of Australia where the country looks like it’s had a big bite taken out of it, the south west is a backpacking hotspot for two very good reasons. The first is it is home to one of Australia’s best wine regions - offering plenty of seasonal work for backpackers on a working holiday visa.  But more importantly, protected and preserved by desert on one side and ocean on the other, the south west region provides a living window to a natural environment not found anywhere else in the world.

David Whitley takes to the air over the Oxley Wild Rivers National Park, terrified that his tiny steed won’t make it.

If two proper helicopters got together and had a baby, this would probably be it. In chopper terms, the tiny contraption in front of me looks like a newborn. It can seat two (or three with a bit of breathing in) and appears to be a mere shell. This is my first time in a helicopter, and I can’t profess to being an expert, but being able to see the engine and inner workings surely isn’t safe, is it?

David Whitley gets ready to roll in Sydney

I step out through the glass door with a beer in hand, ready to go old folk-spotting. After all, that’s what bowling’s about isn’t it? A nice way for retirees to get some exercise in their gleaming whites. It’s fair to say that bowling (the outdoor on a green type, rather than the ten pin version) doesn’t really have the sexiest of reputations across most of the world. But in Australia, this isn’t the case. In the last ten years, the sport has undergone a remarkable resurgence and become cool amongst hip young trendsetters.

David Whitley finds himself gawping at near-extinct creatures on a tiny speck of land in the middle of the Tasman Sea.

Ambling along the wooden walkway from the room to the restaurant, a little brown thing scurries through the foliage. It’s a bird; more specifically, the Lord Howe Woodhen. It’s not the most spectacular creature we’ll ever see, but the fact that only around 250 of them exist in the world makes the spotting truly remarkable. It’s this sort of thing that people come to Lord Howe Island for. It’s a romantic getaway destination, with a population of around 350 people, a maximum of 400 visitors at any one time and no mobile phone coverage.

David Whitley goes rolling downhill in a giant plastic ball in southern Queensland.

Welcome, my friends, to Teletubbyland. On top of the lush green, perfectly-sculpted hill, closely cut and rolling like a particularly vicious golf green, is a giant ball. About four metres high, made entirely of see-through, bubble wrap-style plastic, it bobbles around, reflecting the sun and looking quite, quite surreal.

David Whitley swings from the treetops near Launceston.

The tree is shaking almost as much as I am. The towering eucalypt can blame the wind – every gust sends it lurching from side to side. For me, it’s just cowardly nerves. I’m stood on a ‘cloud station’, 23m above the ground. It’s essentially a circular metal brace around the tree, complete with a trampoline-like platform for the trussed-up victims to wobble about on as they prepare for the death swoop.

David Whitley tries to get his hands on what he patently can’t afford in Western Australia

Former Sydney resident David Whitley shares his top five local secrets for those who want to go beyond the usual Bondi and Opera House trail

David Whitley changes his tune on bikers as he rides down from Sydney to Wollongong.

Sometimes it’s good to be proved utterly wrong. For an entire lifetime up until this point, I had firmly held the view that big noisy motorbikes are a total scourge on society, ridden entirely by possessors of alarming personality deficiencies. Harley Davidsons, I would thunder, serve no purpose but to annoy people they drive past.  It’s amazing how quickly something can change once you put a leather jacket on…

Off the coast of New South Wales, David Whitley stumbles across a scheme to save the fairy penguins and rid their island habitat of an unwanted invader.

The ranger removes the brick from the top of the wooden box and lifts the lid. Huddled away in the corner is a sight of such undeniable cuteness that even the most emotionally-stunted meathead couldn’t resist crumbling into a gushing “awwwwwwwww!” The two little penguin chicks are essentially just big balls of fur with intensely lovable faces, and they are one of the main reasons that so much work is going into Montague Island.

Landlubber David Whitley gets a taste of sailing without leaving the beach in Northern Queensland.

It’s a wonder that everyone in Mission Beach doesn’t have one of these babies. The four villages that make up the area are spread four or five kilometres apart, and the most direct path between them is straight down the 14km-long beach. As I stand on the shore, considering the post-pub transport possibilities in a one taxi town, Chantelle pulls up her Blo-kart. It’s an enormous contraption that she somehow pulled out of a bag half the size of a surfboard. At the bottom, there’s a metal frame with wheels and a seat. On top of that, there’s a big sail.

David Whitley becomes a temporary part of the family at Bullock Mountain Homestead near Glen Innes in New South Wales.
 
Containing the sort of energy usually associated with a nuclear reactor, Cruiser bounds down the bank, ploughs through the water and digs his paws in to climb up my chest. My new friend indulges in a frenetic bout of face-licking; a sure sign that he’s not planning to leave me alone for the rest of the stay.  I’ve been out in the bush for less than a day, and I’m evidently part of the family already. Cruiser is the younger of the two dogs at the Bullock Mountain Homestead, and the boisterous Labrador-cross comes everywhere, be it on a scramble down the river, a drive through the forest or pre-dinner kangaroo hunt. He’s after rabbits rather than roos, however.

David Whitley discovers how northern Australia has turned from shooting crocodiles to showing them off to visitors.

Swimming in front of us is one of the finest killing machines ever devised by nature. Even its swimming strokes are menacing; the slow, deliberate movements of the tail cut through the water in eerie silence. And nothing else on the Adelaide River is stupid enough to come near it. The estuarine (or saltwater) crocodile is an amazing creature. It is our closest living reptilian link to the era of the dinosaurs, and the essential design of the saltie hasn’t changed in millions of years.

David Whitley trudges along to Darwin’s sunset market like a moody teenager, and ends up a convert.

To me, the most distressing part of any holiday is the day that starts with: “Ooh, the market sounds quite nice.” I grew up in a market town. I know what markets are like – someone bellows “fresh bananas” all day, an old woman sells rubbish old books and the other stalls flog cheap boxer shorts that wouldn’t even get past Primark quality control. Abroad, things tend to be little different. You might get different types of fruit being shouted about, whilst if you’re in an area vaguely frequented by tourists, the pants will be accompanied by colourful bits of cloth that you’ll never wear and ‘trinkets’.

In Alice Springs and Katherine, David Whitley discovers how people living in the remotest parts of Australia remain attached to the rest of the world.

The real Outback?

On my journey through Australia, I have been travelling across what I deem the Outback. In reality, I’ve been sticking to the main highways with the odd diversion up a short gravel track. It’s still more than many Australians will cover in their lifetime, but I’d be deluded if I tried to convince myself that I was really living the Outback life. For a reality check, a visit to the Royal Flying Doctor Service Visitor Centre in Alice Springs is in order. The RDFS is a truly remarkable organisation, and one that literally keeps the people of the Outback alive.

In the Northern Territory, David Whitley finds the antidote to Australia’s disappointing drinking establishments.

There are a lot of rose-tinted myths about Australian pubs. The idea that they’re all magnificent places where everyone’s your mate and will buy you a beer as the good times roll is utterly absurd. The sad truth is that most Australian pubs are on a sliding scale of awfulness.

David Whitley braves the foul food and pricey petrol to discover glorious slices of Outback absurdity in the Northern Territory.

One thing that will become unavoidable if you decide to take on a big driving adventure through Australia is the roadhouse. These lonely outposts of expensive fuel, culinary horrors, country music CDs and porn mags in plastic wrappers quickly become something of an institution. They keep truckers in energy drinks, bacon rolls and staple-adorned libido appeasers - and tourists in reminders of how while remote Australia is great to visit, you wouldn’t want to live there.

Eager to get his hands on a few deadly missiles, David Whitley pays a visit to a secretive military town in the South Australian desert

I thought my primary school had a pretty cool setting – the playground was surrounded by corn fields, and we often got to see a tractor. But the primary school in Woomera wins hands down – it has a park full of intercontinental ballistic missiles outside. There are a fair few bizarre places in the Australian Outback, but Woomera takes some beating on this front. Approximately 300 miles north-east of Adelaide, Woomera has an eerie Truman Show-like feel about it as you drive through. The houses are prim and neat and the streets are kept spotless, but there seems to be no-one there.

David Whitley hits the Stuart Highway, and feels humbled by Australia’s vast, dry interior.

You can quickly go off kangaroos. Don’t get me wrong, under normal circumstances I can happily watch them all day. But at 6.30am, when I’m bleary eyed, behind the wheel of a strange car and tentatively inching my way through the minimal dawn light, they are less welcome. At this time of the morning, kangaroos are a ruddy nuisance. They come out in force, leaping nonchalantly across the road from all angles and making driving a test akin to The Gauntlet on Gladiators.

David Whitley’s travelling partner was sceptical about the merits of Australia’s famous big red rock. And then she walked around it...

“Well, it’s just a big rock, isn’t it?” Katrina, it is fair to say, was excited about our drive-through-the-Outback adventure, but didn’t quite get why Uluru was so special. OK, we pretty much had to go there if we were heading through central Australia, but paying to stay at the severely overpriced resort and taking a six hour round trip out of the way was of debatable merit. I knew differently. I’ve been to the artist formerly known as Ayers Rock before. And I know what those who fly in, take a picture or two and fly out are missing out on.

David Whitley meets the cave-dwelling opal miners in Hollywood’s favourite piece of post-apocalyptic Outback real estate.

The walls of my hotel room look like they’ve been splattered in blood, and there are no windows to allow natural light in. It would appear as though I am the unsuspecting star of the latest film in the Saw series. In Coober Pedy, this is all perfectly normal. My hotel room is underground, having been dug out into the side of a hill, and the deep red streaks are part of the remarkable natural sandstone in the area.

David Whitley strikes gold when he veers away from the big names in Australia’s most famous wine region

David Whitley looks with older eyes at Melbourne’s city centre – and finds that it has rediscovered its soul.

My hazy recollections of Melbourne’s city centre are not all that favourable. Back in 2002, I trawled the rigid grid delivering magazines every week, and found it all a little dispiriting. There were a few decent pubs and Chinatown was mildly diverting but central Melbourne always struck me as having a dull functionality and little heart.

David Whitley discovers why Big Things are a big thing in Australian country towns – and stumbles across a new favourite.

Australian country towns can be comically magnificent. Most labour under the impression that they are comfortably the greatest place in the world. And, if by ‘greatest’ you mean ‘having the highest ratio of mullet hairdos’, then they’re usually spot on. The combination of big hearts and big hair tends to be a winning one, however.

David Whitley attempts to tick off Sydney’s must-sees and cultural attractions – but ends up on a glorious walk to nowhere.

Noble intentions and savage hangovers don’t tend to mix that well. And that’s my excuse for spending 20 minutes shambling around the Museum of Sydney before conceding to myself that I wasn’t taking anything in. Sydney is my second home. I lived there for just under five years, and enjoyed the experience enormously. But as is so often the case when you live somewhere, I was a bad tourist whilst there. There are so many things to do and places to see in Sydney, but I’d only scratched the surface during my stint as a resident.

Cook is known, with typical Outback humour, as ‘the Queen City of the Nullarbor.’ According to a signpost outside the little village store it has a population of ‘4 people, 40 dingoes and 4,000,000 flies.’ It is fair to say that not much happens in Cook and the arrival of the Indian Pacific is still a highlight of the week. The railway has traditionally played a vital part in the ‘taming’ of the Outback and a rail journey across Australia remains one of the world’s epic travel experiences. Australians, accustomed to the mind-boggling distances involved in travelling their island continent, might tell you that the Outback is boring, that it’s empty, that there’s not much to see in what they call ‘The Great Bugger-all.’

Contrary to popular belief, orienteering skills are not an important part of hitchhiking across Australia. Having found the Stuart Highway out of Sydney we simply went straight on across the Blue Mountains and the miles of desiccated, lizard-baking wasteland that is bizarrely known as ‘The Accessible Outback’ of South Australia.

First-light is referred to in the picturesque Outback slang as ‘sparrow’s fart.’ It was not this, however, that greeted us as we stepped out of our cabin, but the cackling call of the kookaburra that is known as ‘the bushman’s clock.’ We’d cracked a few stubbies the night before and, as we started out towards a ridge that was just beginning to rear up against the paling sky, my usually tireless sidekick Crocodile Dougee was sporting eyes like the slits in Ned Kelly’s tin helmet.

Photo courtesy of Mark Eveleigh

David Whitley heads out to the alternative lifestyle hotspots in northern New South Wales in search of the elusive hippy.

“I-I like to call it Amazonian Fizz Guava,” comes the toned-down New York accent from behind. It looks so placid and juicy, but as soon as it hits the tongue, its sourness makes you recoil. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good, but it attacks with surprising bitterness. “I-I told you, didn’t I!” says Paul, with almost childlike glee, as he turns around and meanders back through his threadbare wooden shack.

David Whitley discovers a bizarre slice of Spain in the West Australian bush, and finds that the monastic community looking after it is struggling to survive.

The artwork inside the chapel is astonishing. The murals fill every available bit of wall space, climbing towards the patterned roof. The scene is a riot of angels, and in contrast to the puritan wooden pews lined up in front. It would be an eye-opener in a fine old European city, but to find it on a patch of red dirt in the Australian bush is a little unusual. What’s more, the standards of architecture and decoration are maintained across the town in prayer rooms, old schools and the Abbey church. As a result, 27 of the 65 buildings in New Norcia, Western Australia are listed by the National Trust. New Norcia is a spectacular oddity. It is Australia’s only monastic town, and every building in it is owned by a small community of Benedictine monks. This includes the surprisingly lively pub.

David Whitley gets a taste of Australia’s dark whaling past, and realizes why the only boats going after whales now don’t have harpoons.

The bay is awash with blood. Sharks, whipped into a feeding frenzy, surround the boat, as the men on board battle to drag their precious haul ashore and keep it intact. Gunshots ring out above the howling wind, a shoot-to-kill policy adopted to keep the circling predators away. To go overboard now would be instant death, as it has been for colleagues in the past.

David Whitley mounts a prized Australian camel in Port Macquarie.

The toothy grin would be quite menacing if it didn’t look so ridiculous. Kneeling down, being strapped up with all manner of tethers, hooks and attachments, is Liela, the massive beast that I am about to entrust with my safety for the next twenty minutes. Her big yellow teeth hang down gormlessly as her handler finishes tightening the saddle. Emerging from behind the truck and the camels, he looks surprised. “Blimey! We don’t usually get this many for the naked ride,” he says, as we all look nervously at our trusty steeds.

David Whitley gets a true taste of the Outback, going out with one of the world’s most isolated posties on his rounds.

Sheep logic works entirely differently to ours. The three woolly merinos can hear us approaching along the dirt track. They can sense the dust storm being kicked up behind the Landcruiser. They know that this means danger, and they need to get out of the way. As we thunder ever closer, they panic and break out into a run. And it seems that straight in front of the rapidly approaching vehicle is the optimum route to safety. “That,” says Steve. “Is why sheep and intelligence don’t belong in the same sentence. At least the goats tend to run off on the right side.” Steve Green knows these treacherous stretches of red earth better than any man alive. He is the Australia Post contractor responsible for servicing some of NSW’s most remote properties twice a week.

David Whitley gets away from the tour buses to go canyoning in the Blue Mountains near Sydney.

Unless the inner child has been thoroughly buried, its very existence wiped out by a space age memory eraser, it’s very difficult not to sneakily enjoy water parks. You know the sort – those giant aquatic adventure playgrounds, infested with giant, curling slides that spit screaming kids out into pools of water every few seconds.

David Whitley heads into the recording studio in a bid to make it as a rock god.

As locations go, it’s about as far from rock and roll as you can get. In deepest suburban Adelaide, there’s a grill in the back yard and a few plastic chairs out the front. I knock tentatively. “Er, is this the right place for the groupies and throwing TV sets out of the window?” Inside what looks like an average family home is a full-blown recording studio. 52 Nelson Street is the unlikely home of Beat Records. But more importantly, it’s home to Rock Star For A Day (Rockstarforaday.com).

In search of Australia’s greatest adrenaline rushes, David Whitley goes surf rafting and kayaking on the New South Wales coast.

Aside from the caws of a lone seagull and the ominous rumble of the waves crashing to shore, all is eerily silent. The sense of tension and anticipation in the air is palpable. Everyone waiting, a brooding alertness, as the ocean lumbers beneath us, slowly building itself up for a tumultuous peak. The helmets in front turn round, partly to check the looks of concentration on the faces behind them and partly in solidarity with their comrades. We’re on the front line, you can trust us to do our job.

“That’s the thing about Aus. It’s vast!” my fellow passenger was saying, as we shot across the desert at 100km an hour while gulping at frosted glasses of Victoria Beer. “People from outside just can’t grasp the sheer ‘vastity’ of it.”

There are few things more hypnotic than watching a desert highway flicker out, like a shaken rope, as it stretches out into the limitless distance. Moreover you can be pretty sure that no cop in his right mind is going to be sitting out on this blood-boiling forty-five degree outback day. So you keep the needle hovering at a steady 130km/hr and listen to the wheel purr over the hot sticky tarmac.

It’s now almost seven months since I left London for Panama and began this little jaunt around the world. Seven months living out of a backpack, eating in cafés and cheap restaurants. Seven months of working on magazine stories (more stories than I can remember now) in what must by now be a couple of dozen ‘hijacked offices’ in the corners of cafes, bars, airports, hotel lobbies, private sitting rooms and even railway carriages.

The Sydney Harbour Bridge climb must be the most successful tour operation of its kind anywhere in the world. It is a complete human conveyor belt – an entire factory dedicated to elevating whole groups of people spiritually and physically skyward. The Bridgeclimb complex is erected in a series of tunnels where, until a few years ago, they did nothing more adventurous than sell Porsches. At the height of the season Bridgeclimb is now processing groups of up to 10 tourists, 24 hours a day. You are prepared, kitted out and trained in a super-efficient environment. You are shown how to attach your harnesses and are fitted with earphones that instead of going in your ear rest on your cheekbones and send vibrations that your brain deciphers as your guide’s voice. This way your ears are also open to eternal sound. The whole atmosphere feels strangely like it will on the fateful future day when some of us (or some of you) will be selected for transfer to a less exhausted planet.