You know, there really are some fab things about Sydney. And there’s some stuff that’s pretty ordinary. But there is one thing that sets this city apart. One thing that raises it to a state of grace and splendour. One thing above all that makes Sydney magnificent and beautiful. 

Look, don’t get me wrong. I love the Opera House at night resting like a spaceship. My heart skips a beat when I catch a glimpse of the Bridge rising in all its metallic might. We have eaten at great restaurants from $15 breakfasts on Glebe Point Road to a gobsmackingly inventive dinner at Ester in Chippendale. There are the fab NSW institutions such as the Art Gallery and the Library, and the White Rabbit, a private gallery devoted to contemporary Chinese art. Of course, there are beaches like Bondi and Coogee with their swimming pools on the side. And, just to be practical for a mo, I also love the exchange rate, which has made this affordable for your intrepid (and I hope not too smug) Grey Nomad.

On the other hand, the less we say about the cartoon media, the archaic transport system, the derivative architecture, the dreary shops with their standardised goods, the Central Business District where men and women walk like aimless zombies, a complete absence of any modern clothing fashion or wider design sense, awful Australian music that sounds like strangled screeching white cockatoos – the better. These are, I’m afraid, not strong points.

If I could choose only one thing to define Sydney, that draws me to it and keeps me breathless with anticipation, that takes me over and wins hands down – I would, of course, choose Sydney Harbour.

OK, OK. Time out. Look, it’s either this ‘ere prose poem or a song. Your choice. What would you like? I got…. Bridge Over Babbling Water. I can do you a… How Deep is My Love (blinking Bee Gees – Can’t Get Them Out Of My Head). Or if you ask nicely… What’s It All About, Sydney? Or if you ask Nicely Nicely…. Sit Down You’re Rocking The Ferry…

Since we got here 65 days ago, I’ve walked over 700 miles. I will now pause…. 1. To hear your audible gasp 2. To let you attempt the arithmetic, deducting 7 full days we’ve spent on boats, trains and planes, and 3. To bask in your hearty cheering and wild applause. Thank you, thank you, it was nothing really. That makes 2,500 miles since last May (and a little weight loss to match). You can see my  walking  map here….  

This fitness malarkey has allowed me to explore what I want, where I want, and see all those nooks and crannies of the harbour. To wind down boring suburban streets and hills and admire the different forms of wealth and privilege in the eastern suburbs (which are actually on the south side). Like the Kambala private school where the girls sit on the lawn in circles at lunchtime with their green tunics, straw boaters, neatly cut sandwiches, and take for granted the most perfect view in the whole city across to the opera house and the bridge. Their ‘values’ (remember this is a school, not yet a corporation) include ‘integrity, respect for others, inclusivity and the importance of leadership skills’. At night 5 aboriginals on work experience cut the grass with nail scissors. Probably. Like nearby Double Bay where you can hail your sea plane to take you for lunch at Cottage Point restaurant on the Hawkesbury River. Like the Piss Off gates and entry-phone systems, and the Fuck You four wheel drives whose idea of ‘off road’ is the underground garage.

Those Eastern suburbs – say from Double Bay to Watson’s Bay, don’t provide particularly good walking. But then south to Bondi and Coogee, looking out over the Pacific, it’s sort of OK. A succession of beaches, perma-tans, water sports, mostly geared to youth and hedonism.

My favourite walking area is the group of northern tracks and headlands that wind through bays and 19th century military lookouts from the ocean at Manly, upharbour (west) to Cremorne (vaguely opposite the Opera House). This stretch of about 20 miles – all folds and refolds, endless steps up and down – is just heaven. All harbour-side areas draw the wealthy in, but it’s a little less up itself here than the eastern suburbs. Maybe it’s just that there’s a lot more track (sometimes even Bush) clinging to the shore 50 feet above the water, and much more wildlife: the gorgeous stoical kookaburra, the many Rainbow Lorikeets (for you Scousers, that’s alora Lorikeets), wild turkeys, the outsize Eastern Water Dragons (gentle, foot long dinosaurs). Maybe it’s the stunning views east to the ocean and southwest back into the city. Maybe it’s the occasional shade, with the serpentine Angophora trees reaching and hanging. Maybe it’s the more modest beaches, like Balmoral with its elegant café and restaurant, the Bathers’ Pavilion, or the simple kiosk at Clontarf where families hang out at weekends, complete with, finally, barbecue. Whatever, these walks are fantastic.

Round here, at home in Glebe, part of the inner west, I’ve also walked loads. Specifically, from our little house down to the quieter Rozelle and Blackwattle Bays – the route of my 5 mile power walk. On goes the sports kit, including a proud purple Spurs shirt, the super lightweight shorts, the beloved trainers, my new wireless headphones, and my music. This season’s model? 1970s Little Feat, the Scottish ‘Acid Croft’ (really) of Shooglenifty and Martyn Bennett, Van the Man, and – may God forgive me – the Rolling Stones. This is the soundtrack to the first hour or so of my day. And meanwhile the sun, rising fast, shimmers on the water and reflects off the graceful ANZAC bridge, the rower men and scullery maids complete their training chores while somebody barks orders, the dogs attend weekend behaviour class and learn nothing, and the women in their 30s and 40s study callisthenics – and their male fitness instructor.

We also love the stretch from the Central Business District, west from Circular Quay taking in the historic Rocks area, and the wharves with great cafes and the Sydney Theatre Company. But north of the river, west of the bridge, there’s not much really. Someone once told us she lived in The Bush, but it turned out to be Chatswood, one of these thankless north western suburbs.

On this map, you might notice that there’s rather a big space between the walks on the south and those on the north. This is yer actual water, the harbour. TC and I share a love of places with a ferry culture… It started with Seattle in 1999, and it runs through Venice, even Hong Kong now. London and Paris, for all that they have great rivers, have not cracked it. You need to come here, just once in your life, for no other reason than to ride on the workmanlike Green and Yellow ferries. Each is named after one boat from the First Fleet, that ragbag of soldiers, convicts, wenches and suppliers that came here in 1788. The fact they’ve used all the names up is perhaps the worst possible reason not to expand the service, but there you are. They’re very sentimental types here, don’t you know.
The ferries facilitated the development of the centre, of Sydney, of Australia, particularly before the bridge opened in the 1930s. Until then, everyone came to work this way. Now, in this car-centric culture its glory is fading with a mass of tourists – the buildings, the walkways favour functionality over magic.

You choose your destination and find your ferry just as it’s leaving. There’s a thrill as the ferryman hollers, and you run the last few yards past dawdling tourists to jump the swerving gangplank. You always decide to sit outside. You try to calculate how to avoid the direct sunshine, and catch a breeze, and inevitably you get it wrong.

But out on the water, everything is just great. The sun, the sky, the city, the suburbs – the water – all connected, in harmony, at peace, and celebrating one great place on earth. The ferries go under the bridge, beside the opera house, past the naval yard, out in the channels. They serves places with such magical names, places which don’t often let the side down: Cremorne Point, Cockatoo Island, Old Mosman, Elizabeth Bay…they’re all what you imagine and hope for. I could spend my life on these ferries.

Except that we spoilt people also got to spend time on a yacht, taking sailing lessons with A, in her 32 footer. Twice we went out with her from Clontarf to literally learn the ropes. TC used to sail on the Norfolk Broads when she was young, and in my 20s I got to crew in races across the windswept English Channel a few times. This is different. It’s easier, it’s warmer, the view is better, and you can do it without chaining yourself to the gunwales. And frankly, I prefer an objective of ‘maybe saunter up to the Bridge by lunchtime’ to ‘get to bloody Honfleur before the force 9 comes up’. This was one of TC’s very best ideas, and we should now of course sell up, and buy a boat. Here. Trim the sails, tack and reach all day long, and only worry about where to eat tonight.

Look Sydney, we are tourists, and we know we’ve only scratched the surface. When we arrived two months ago we knew to look out for the bridge and opera house. Then we started to connect the dots between areas and to understand how they differ, and what makes each individual. Then we started to layer in a little history, sensing the stories and character peculiar to each place. But really we know very little.

So, it’s so long Syd. I have loved these two months, but I probably won’t ever be back. I have a heap of memories, and TC has a bucketful of photos. I will look back fondly at the friends made, the places explored, the gaps yet to be filled. For now, it’s time to hoist the mainsail, to trim the Genoa, and to set course – Tasmania Ho!