Pittwater, a mere 40 miles north of the city, is an off track place, deep in a huge National Park, and only accessible by boat. It probably doesn’t rank as prime bush, but to me it feels pretty remote. On a quiet stretch near the Hawkesbury River, where artists and poets escape the rat race with shabby chic sheds, weather beaten clapboard homes and the obligatory sailing boat, we are alone in a Youth hostel (forever young!) with a few hardy souls, and lots of snakes, mosquitos, and primeval trees (including mangroves, where tiny red crabs scuttle amongst the mud at low tide). There are giant goanas, wallabies (apparently) and lots of things to guard against with sprays (before and after), smoke devices and lots of hope. The cicadas and crickets sing tonight while an owl swoops and the full moon shows on the water far below us, the wooded hills all about us. It’s beautiful.

I think I’d need a few weeks here to settle in, to actually get it. I can’t simply will the spirit of the wild frontier. Maybe the long traipse up the steeply wooded hill carting two days’ worth of food and water and a fully stretched rucksack doused the spirit of adventure. Maybe a couple of days ago at Watson’s Bay with an easy cliff top walk and an expansive view of the ocean lulled me into that Sydneysider’s preference for suburbia by the sea. Maybe the Jewish neurotic in me, trying my best to Embrace the Wild, but suspecting David Attenborough is really as close as I wanna get. 

The manager of the hostel is a fine Australian, keen to engage our enthusiasm for trails which we will be pleased to know are ‘grown over’, as if the lack of signage or indeed even a map, is a joy to treasure, a challenge to welcome. I know I’m a wimp and we are debating whether to spend tomorrow actually in the comfort of a cruise down the river to a rather good restaurant, using the excuse it will again be around 37c. It is heralded in the guides as fabulous, best approached by your sea plane, with a correspondingly airborne menu price. Now that really does turn us off. Trouble is, there’s a second one which is actually close to affordable by real people. Both vie for title of Restaurant at the End of the Universe, it says in my guide. But what I want to know is – which does the best Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster? Where’s Trilion lunching?

Tonight we have messed about on tracks, had a snack, sprayed ourselves a fifth time with insect repellent, blitzed the room to dissuade creepy crawlies tonight, and bid our fellow guests goodnight in that caring way you reserve when you’re not sure they’ll be alive in the morning.

I’m being chewed up by the mozzies now, and I’m trying to decide if it’s better to brave the bedroom – there is a grill in the floor, for crying out loud! – or stay out here and show ‘em what I’m made of. But today, like every day in Australia so far, I’ve walked well over 10 miles, and I’m ready for bed. So I’ll go in smiling smugly knowing I am that rare beast – a Jewish bushwhacker.