My mother doted on me and believed I was wonderful. Well, she’s always been insightful. She also kept me cute. I was a snappy dresser before I walked, and by the time I could, my hair was kept with a Cliff Richard quiff, courtesy Amami Wave Set Lotion. I think it’s fair to say that she spoilt me rotten, but it’s also true that as a result I have a sense of style many have tried to imitate, but few can match. If you got it, flaunt it baby….

I put shows on from the age of 6, playing to no larger an audience than I do now. I started writing songs at 8, and the older I get the higher Love is a-Comin’ ranks in my oeuvre. There are Super 8 movies of me looking beautiful, and they’re a darn sight more attractive than photos of me nowadays. My favourite photo is of me a few years old, with my closest friend – a cuddly toy: it’s of the two of us side by side in an armchair, discussing some matter of world importance. For decades I assumed my friend had gone to the great toy room in the sky, until I was clearing out my parents’ garage a few years ago and found him. There he was: eyeless, pretty well worn, but still graceful and stoical, soft and strong. He smelled of my childhood, of hair lotion, of lost memories. My koala.

I used to call him Kola Bear, and because it seems I’ve loved silly word jokes ever since I could talk – Coca Kola. Sometimes, I just want to be that little boy again.

Naturally, I’ve always wanted to see a real koala, in the wild. Now I have. We are currently west of Melbourne, on the Great Ocean Road, one of those great public works projects designed to give servicemen jobs after the war. The GOR alternately hugs and wavers from the most dramatic coastline for 30 or 40 miles, winding through rainforest, eucalyptus, pasture, and all the heady mixture of landscape we’ve come to love. We’re walking a few bits, driving most of it.

On a side road down to Cape Otway Lighthouse we came across a veritable troupe, sitting asleep in trees (as they do for 20 hours a day), one or two active and doing what else koalas do – climbing the precarious branches, and reaching the outermost succulent leaves. They are beautiful things, their podgy bottoms sitting astride a branch or clinging to one, their faces quizzical and knowing, their fur a faithful copy of my Coca Kola, just asking for a cuddle and a bed time story. Dear reader, they did not disappoint.

 You’ll know that koalas eat eucalyptus. And only eucalyptus. What you may not know is that there are literally dozens of eucalypts, and that koalas in Victoria are very fussy. Here they only eat one variety – Manna Eucalyptus. Here starts the problem. Having grown in number to an almost unsustainable population of 23 per hectare in this area, they had begun to overgraze the Manna. Despite a recent sterilisation programme, the trees are insufficient to support those left, and the koalas are not versatile enough to shift their diet even to closely related varieties. There are now many overeaten dead trees, and a falling population of koalas, many of whom slowly starve to death. They are not yet formally endangered, or even protected, but they are in trouble here. (I hope I’ve got the chain of events right).

We were told all this by S, a passionate and knowledgeable man who has developed a wonderful ecolodge where we stayed. The primary purpose of the lodge is conservation and ecological research (and some animal rescue), with a team of 8 post-grad researchers including a couple of PhD students.

He took us on a bush hike, and explained the complex interplay between flora and fauna, the gist of which is that nature is not always a kind symbiotic thing. We talked about land management, and that settlers are slowly learning that the aboriginal methods – particularly the use of fire as a strategic resource – work best. We talked about the politics of this, big business versus green. A lot of S’s sentiment echoes a book I’m reading by the fabulous novelist Tim Winton, a sort of Australian Iain Banks. In Island Home, a homage to Australia’s natural world, I think Winton is saying that though it’s usually pretty obvious who the good guys are and who is set for hell, Australia doesn’t really yet have the maturity or institutional structure to engage in a debate as to what sort of environment it really wants and the trade offs it’s prepared to make. The green lobby has made great strides since the 70s and has won some amazing site-specific battles – protecting Tasmania from the loggers for example – but, as explored in a previous post, decisions are still mostly taken by those in power with a firm eye to money.

What I’m learning is that I’m just starting to realise how very little I know. All I really do is look at the koalas in S’s refuge centre, at the other less well known species he cares about (the Sugar Glider, the Potaroo and the Tiger Quoll) and be amazed and enthralled by the beautiful and different and varied and colourful world of Australia. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned the incredible birds, like our three faves: the yellow tailed black cockatoo, the blue Fairy Wren and the kookaburra – to say nothing of all the parrots in various combinations of vivid blue, green, yellow and red. I’m thinking about those fierce looking spiders (which I now sort of appreciate), about the pounding azure surf and how alive the sea seems. About the sandstone and granite and marble. I’m looking at a clear and deep night sky high over our guest house tonight in the Aire Valley. And I’m thinking I’ve definitely had at least one glass of excellent Sauvignon Blanc too many.

I’m off to bed, and present company notwithstanding, I wish I had my Coca Kola with me here to share it. While we still can.

Sentimental, moi? A week to go, back to work in two. That’ll knock it out of me…