A good guitar is a beautiful thing. A great guitar is floating in heaven with the angels singing. Every musician cares about the instrument. Bass players care about the lacquer on the body that determines the resonance of the sound, the saxophonist about his mouthpiece (oi vey, ebonite or metal?) – and acoustic guitarists, well, they just Fret! I’m actually pretty ignorant compared to C, but to we strummers, the tone and timbre are paramount – and they come largely from the main woods. My 1989 Lowden, made for me in Northern Ireland, is cedar and walnut. Warm, loud and precise. My newer Collings, built in Austin, Texas – and ‘pre-loved’ by Douglas Adams of Hitchhiker’s Guide fame – is blonde Maple: crisp and clear. Then there are more common woods like Spruce (for the tops) and Rosewood (for the body) as in my Martin and Fylde guitars. Rounded, pianistic: the classic folkie sound. Then there’s the way it’s made, the way it’s decorated, how it feels in the hand – the tactile qualities. And of course – of course! – what it sounds like. You can hear what’s gone in, by what comes out – the skill, the experience, the materials. Saying one guitar is like another is like saying all books are alike. Each one tells a different story, conjures up a different mood, nudges you to play and maybe even live a tiny tad differently.

‘Hold on, Laz’,’I hear you ask, ’What on earth has this gotta do with Australia?’. Well I’d decided not to bring any of my precious babies with, not to risk any travel damage, but to go and buy something cheap as chips instead. So off we went from our suburban hippy-chic home in Glebe (more later I’m sure). The weather has been appalling since we arrived in Sydney at 7am on 3rd January – continual torrents of rain, bucketing down in our forested garden, raising unfamiliar scents, rattling on our roof, disturbing our sleep, filling the gutters and streets, rolling down to the bay a mile from where we live. We took the 470 bus which splashed its way into the centre of town – we might as well have rowed in – bought an Aussie phone and some decent pillows, and I left my Travelling Companion to some sale shopping while I went in search of the guitar store.

There, they had what I’d seen online. A left handed copy of a Gibson J200 in maple. Wow! Always wanted one! And so cheap! A tenth the price of the real thing – could life get any better? Then I started to play it. No word of a lie, it was the very worst guitar I’ve ever played. Heavy in the hand, raucous on the ear, poorly finished with sharp edges. If I were a koala I would scratch my way up it. If I were a kangaroo I would bounce on it till it broke. If I were an Aussie I would chop it up and use it for firewood or on the barbie. Woody Guthrie (Bob Dylan’s hero and role model) had the motto on his guitar ‘This machine kills fascists’. This one should have ‘This machine kills music’ emblazoned on it. The makers ought to be hung up by the guitar strings that it came with: cheap, sharp, shrill. Reader, I did not buy it.

(And for those few of you who care about these things, I’ve ordered myself an Epiphone Texan in from another store – reliable, cheap, good sound, and famous for being the guitar Paul McCartney used to write the world’s most famous song, Yesterday. So there’s hope for me yet: Sparky’s Magic Piano an’ all that).

Now, I think I have sorted out my morning walking route, around Rozelle Bay. It’s only 3 miles, so I can probably double it once the rain goes at the weekend, and power walk to the Fish Market each day. Sydney Harbour is a deeply furrowed thing, a bit like a crinkly human brain with its countless folds, nooks and crannies, each one of course physical but also holding its own history, its own neighbourhood, and its own dog walkers. It’s pouring down – still. I’m going to have a shower and get ready for lunch out with our friend G’s family.

I’ve been waiting to say G’Day! But the the weather is so awful, I’m going to save it!