There are ninety nine ways I could end this blog. Dubious stories I never got round to. More myths and legends about Australia. Hilarious anecdotes. Twenty pages of conclusions and insights into the Australian condition. But when it comes down to it, I just want to tell you about Harry.

Harry is in his 70s and owns a guesthouse on the Great Ocean Road. There, on his small farm, he has a one storey, 200 foot long house that’s as functional as his two massive barns. There’s a wide white horseshoe gravel driveway leading to and away from the house. In the centre there’s a pergola, roses and a wooden bench. No paths to or from it, no evidence anyone’s ever sat there. There’s a colonnade outside the house running from one end to the other. Inside, there’s one corridor the length of the building with four or five guest rooms at one end, and the family living quarters at the other. It hasn’t seen a style magazine since 1968: the bathrooms are avocado, the carpets green and swirly, the paintings all local and out of perspective. There are China plates on the walls. His wife Lorna wears a plastic name tag, a blue tunic and a wig, and has sprayed the whole place with air freshener ten minutes before we arrive. We want to sit outside but all the plastic chairs are covered in bird shit.

We have that sinking Louis Theroux feeling. We think of leaving, of finding somewhere – anywhere – else, but it’s the Easter weekend and everywhere is full.

Lorna has told us dinner is at ‘6.30, sharp’. We think of feigning dysentery. But it’s a passable meal, sitting with the other guests there, Nigel and Lilly, he a fork lift truck driver who is actually a surf dude, she a cat lover who sports a pink plastic hat, smiles sweetly, and says little. There’s mince and veg from the garden, and a lovely rhubarb pie.

The conversation is halting. Synthesised muzak gives the room extra atmosphere. So we say we’ve been sitting watching the kangaroos down by the wetlands in the late afternoon sun. Harry starts to tell us of the battle he’s involved in to stop developers building a supposed eco lodge there that will displace the birds, silt up the river, and unbalance the ecosystem. He talks about the public meeting last week, how the developer tried to gate crash it, how some people believe it will bring jobs. The local mayor is suddenly heavily in favour. Harry and other like-minded people feel powerless. But he’s found a lawyer.

I look at the family photos on a side table, and he tells us about his children. His daughter has just finished her PhD in environmental management and has started a pop up organic vegetarian restaurant in her farm down the road, using only what she grows. She’s also starting an organic veg home delivery service. His son is Chief Financial Officer of a software company in Melbourne, and called Harry last weekend from the McLaren VIP pit stop at the F1 Grand Prix.

There’s a certificate on the wall, with a matching photo. Harry puffs his chest with pride and tells me how he represented Australia at the World Tractor Championships in Spain. I keep my excitement in check and ask how that works.

‘Each competitor is given a parcel of land and a tractor. You have to plough it as evenly as you can, as straight. Marks are added for overall performance, and deducted if you take too long’.

‘I bet everyone moans about the land they’re given!’ I say insightfully.

He smiles ruefully. ‘Well, let’s put it this way. I’ve never seen anyone win with a bad plot. That year it just so happened the Spaniard got the best piece of land’.

I urge you to look up the World Ploughing Championship 2016. It’s in York, in September. Come with me. It’s never too late to learn.

Harry takes us on a tour of his land. He shows us the tidy vegetable patch, and pulls off a bunch of table grapes for us to share. He shows us his electric fence, his cattle, his view of the coastline, his waste management plant (yes, I’ve got deja vu). He takes us into his Man Barn. It’s the size of a small aircraft hangar. It has tractors (of course), 4 wheel drive farm vehicles, a life sized metal emu, and a woodworking room the size of a small house. In it, piled about 9 feet high, are stacks of meticulously worked wooden boxes, each with beautiful dovetail joints. They are about 12 inches by 10. He has made them himself for his daughter’s home delivery service.

As we walk back to the house he shows us the rolls of tin he has bought for his next job – reroofing the whole house.

He tells us about their one trip to the UK. They visited friends in Oldham who lent them their convertible Mercedes. Harry and Lorna drove it down the motorway to Windsor. I have this vision of Henry smiling as they steam into the Great Park, a summer wind catching Lorna’s wig as she hangs on for dear life.

We say good night, and in the morning Harry and TC discuss the local birds and plants, the soil. We discuss politics and tourism: how important it is that the Great Ocean Road is kept free of insensitive development, that the people who are encouraged to come are those who will respect the fragility of the coastline.

To me, Harry is the essence of Australia. Harry IS Australia. All the good, bad, wonderful and weird. The can-do frontiersman who is intelligent and practical. Devoid of fancy aesthetics like design and fashion, art and music. Honest, open, hard-working, resourceful, relentless, strong, caring, loving the land and his family. I really admire Harry and I was sorry to say goodbye.

Now we are in Melbourne. A city. Very European. Trams. Cafes on laneways. Lots of art: the less said… Modern buildings alongside the Victorian ones. It’s edgy: pedestrians even cross the road on a red light. There’s one street spray-painted by graffiti artists. Just the one, you understand. Beautiful gardens and tracks in the Domain and the Botanical Gardens. Not Sydney.

We went to a Tom Jones concert last night – that’s quite unusual. We’re seeing Ross Noble tonight. We fly back soon. Can’t wait.

Thank you for reading. Seriously. I haven’t known what I’ve really thought until I’ve written it down. Thanks for your blog comments and so much for your lovely personal mails and messages. The blog’s been read in over 30 countries – mostly here, at home and where friends are. I reckon Laz Goez 2 Oz has had more ‘reads’ than Larry Mindel songs have had ‘listens’.  That’s social media for you. Thank you!

Incidentally, I sort of apologise for occasionally being A Stranger To Truth, for my humble contribution to the canon of Myths and Legends About Australia. As C wrote to me last week, why let the truth get in the way of a good story? It was great fun!

Thanks especially to Bruce and Laila who gave us great ideas and recommendations. We hope you can take advantage of ours in return very soon! To Garry for introducing us to Neil, who gets our award for Very Best Australian (sub category: in Australia). Massive thanks to Shirley and Caroline (and Simon and Rod) for making it OK for us to come on this trip.

But most thanks, of course, go to Catherine – my wonderful Travelling Companion.

Sunshine – check! Spiders – check! The Pioneering Spirit – check! Job done. Chocks away!