FLYING INTO NEW YORK

As we flew down Long Island on a perfect summer's day, with the white sands stretching for miles, I reflect on our travels over the past ten or twelve years and tried to cast my mind back to what I thought about the future when I was a boy in Rhodesia - did I have any plans to travel far and wide, any idea that I might? I think not. I am sure that, when I read the Eloise books, I never imagined for a moment that I would be staying at the Plaza Hotel in New York, revelling in the sumptuousness of its rich rococo.

To me there is always more of a thrill flying into New York than into any other city. Maybe it is the concept of landing in what is the embodiment of America. The drive out of JFK is always a shock - the appalling roads and crowds of cars, but as you bump along, bumper to bumper, suddenly there are the glimpses of the Manhattan skyline and then there it is, in an enormous panorama - from the twin World Trade Towers to the glorious Chrysler Tower. You are here - in America - in New York. The hooting, impatient traffic, predominantly yellow in colour pours down the avenues between those glorious, soaring monuments to mammon.

The approaches to other cities have their own charm and this is what was occupying my mind as we bumped into the landing approach. Having established New York as the premier, what ranking did the others have. And why?

I guess Cape Town would be my next favourite. No doubt this is coloured by my feelings for the city and my happy childhood there. There are also the glorious memories of our early married life and the joy of the birth of our child. But even discounting these, there is a majestic grandeur in any of the approaches. The best is that from the west, sweeping in towards Table Mountain, down past Devils Peak to turn over the arc of False Bay. At night, although one misses the view of the mountain, there is a spectacular effect which occurs as the aircraft clears the Hottentots Holland mountains to the north of the city. The lights of the city and the Cape Flats, the plain between the two ranges of mountains, come into view so suddenly that it seems as if they have been turned on instantaneously for the benefit of the viewers.

London is another big thrill. In over the Channel, with the white cliffs stretching to the south, drawing a straight line along the meandering course of the Thames. The tidy patchwork of fields in the Home Counties starts to erode into the peri-urban sprawl of the city. The docks and factories come into view, surrounded by their mean neighbourhoods. Houses cluster tighter and tighter, although beyond them green countryside can still be seen, from this height. Over the Palace, Wimbledon, the West End - on a clear day they stand out plainly. Then down to Heathrow and the bustle of the terminals before crouching uncomfortably low into the uniqueness of a British cab.

In complete contrast, but running amongst the leaders is the approach to Kariba. Again, moulded perhaps more by the expectations and memories of the place than the sheer spectacle, there is something about the first glimpse of the Lake that makes my heart beat faster. The brown, desiccated countryside suddenly acquires a green fringe, the setting for the bright blueness of the water. Dotted here and there are the islands: Bed, Spurwing, Fothergill, Rhino, Zebra, all with their memories. And as the aircraft descends, individual boats come into focus. The kapenta rigs with their black nets furled like lateen sails wait for the dark of night to start fishing. Cruisers with their fishing boats in tow head from one tie up point to another as speedboats bounce along, spreading their wakes like peacock tails. Early morning game spotting tours set off in their reed covered rafts. The touchdown at Kariba airport, with the propellers thrust into reverse - looking out the window to see if the herd of impala is still at the end of the runway, or if the elephant standing under the msasa tree has decided to move on. The doors of the aircraft open and the steamy heat of the Zimbabwe Valley hits you like a warm shower. There is a unique smell in the air - an African bush smell, mixing with the avgas - and you can hardly wait to get out on the water and into the fish.

When we lived in Zimbabwe, we used to look forward to our annual trip to Switzerland. The route from Africa comes in over Greece and up the Adriatic. The mountains emerge from the gloom of night as dawn breaks - a dawn which is protracted by the westerly flight path. In winter, the sight of the snow on the peaks is still a delight to me, brought up in a land where snow was something you read about in books. The lumpy land over which we fly gradually becomes steeper and higher as we cross the Italian Alps. There is more and more white now, with only the blackness of the steep crags, where the snow cannot stay standing out in sharp contrast. Silvered lakes glint and gleam. The aircraft lowers itself down into the valley, over Lake Lucerne, then a glimpse of Zurich and its own lake before we touch down, spot on time. Even on the airbridge there is a crispness in the air. The terminal has a clinical beauty to it. Everything works. There are no queues. The luggage is arriving on the carousel as you get to the baggage reclaim area. The clean cabs are lined up, their exhausts smoking gently in the chilly morning air. But why not take the train into town. Quick, reliable, spotless it rocks along through the suburbs giving a glimpse into a wakening city. The Bahnhoff is a busy bustle and the smell of coffee and fresh croissants is a lasting memory.

So many other memories jostle forward, once you start. There is Stockholm with green in all its shades everywhere, apart from the dark lakes which abound in such profusion. And Sydney from the north with the harbor below and the bridge and Opera House in silhouette. Rio and the glimpse of Corcovada. Auckland and Christchurch have their verdant green fields and happy memories of trips to that lovely land. Singapore, with the best airport in the world and the excitement of Orlando. Hong Kong, dodging in between the buildings, so close you can almost see what is on the television. But probably best of all is the home landing at Melbourne after a long trip away, especially if Anthea is with me singing "I still call Australia home'!

AUTUMN '95

The dogs scamper ahead. This is their first walk for over of a week - and mine. I am surprised that the king protea which was budding is not yet blooming because all the other fynbos is. Masses of purple and pink - heath, erica and broom are beginning to paint the mountainside. Here and there yellow flowers which I have not yet identified punctuate the scene.

The sun has not yet risen, although dawn colours the horizon. It surprises me to learn so late in life that the sun does not rise in the same place every day. Should I have known that it moves along the line of the horizon, heading in a northerly direction now that autumn is approaching?

In the gathering light the drizzle clouds drifting in from the sea become clearer. One obscures the tanker still anchored in the bay, waiting with its minder tug for repairs to be completed. We may get damp today.

The dogs have disappeared up the track. I call and whistle and Tolkien, the pup, comes hurtling down towards me, eyes bright, grinning his happiness, his long pink tongue lolling. A quick lick and he is off again to join Pushkin in sniffing some interesting droppings. This certainly knocks the spots off the car yards of Elsternwick, their previous beat.

The path begins to rise quite steeply, but I press on quickly, trying to iron out the kinks from a 24 hour flight. As the sun rises behind me, it gets quite warm and the cloud which envelopes us all as we reach the top of the track is welcoming, even if it does cause my glasses to mist.

Pushkin is missing again. Normally a lagger, his enforced idleness has rejuvenated him and he has been foraging ahead far and wide. But now it is not clear which path has he taken. The pup and I wait for him to put in an appearance in response to my summons. Up in Echo Valley, the Jesus singers have started early. Maybe they camped there last night and this is their praise for a new day. Pushkin finally shows up at the bottom of the path wondering what is keeping us. I call him up to me, just to show him who is boss. Puffing and panting he finally makes it.

The mist clears and Kalk Bay harbour lies at our feet. Most of the boats are out, so the fishing must be good. Perhaps we can get some fresh fish for lunch. What will Matt and Danni make of this view when they come at Xmas. I mustn't forget to remind them to bring walking shoes.

We head down the hill to breakfast and a swim. How could I have stayed away so long? How long will this euphoria last?

AUTUMN '92

The air is brisk as Pushkin the miniature schnauzer and I tramp through the fallen plane leaves on a moisty May morning. Rump up, nose down, he sniffs every blade of grass with the elation a wine connoisseur trying a new vintage even though this is one of our regular routes.

Around the corner we face the kilometre or so parallel to Nepean Highway where the wind bites more fiercely than anywhere else. Perhaps it is boosted by the continuous stream of cars rushing by, bearing their luckless passengers to their dreary jobs in the city. Pushkin and I have no such worries - our days are our own. We march more quickly now, past the motor dealers who are still in business. This stretch used to be one of the busiest trading areas before the depression. Our mate Peter from Brisbane let a bit of his acquired urbanity slip the first time he saw the stacked cars gleaming in the floodlights. "You're in a big city now, Pete.", chaffed Al his pal from Sydney.

Over the footbridge, with the traffic roaring below. I have only recently managed to make this crossing without sweating palms and staring at the concrete floor of the bridge. It is part of my training so that next time I am in Vancouver I can cross the swaying suspension bridge - maybe! No such problems now, and as I look towards the city, the spires of the buildings are just showing in the morning light.

On we go, the dog and I, through the pleasant squared residential blocks. Lights show here and there and sometimes I catch the whiff of coffee - taking me back to Zurich in the early morning, especially as the weather is cold. The trees are shedding their leaves here too, and the delicate tracery of their baring branches is becoming more visible as the light gets stronger. We came across a possum in one of these tress last year. Hanging down at eye level over the footpath - and stone dead! I often wonder about that - what could have killed it? Why did it's tail not let go of the branch?

As we wait to cross Beach Road, a bus goes by with misted up windows, full of school kids. The advertisement on the side is for the new wide bodied Camry and, as it goes down the road it is fascinating to see how the perspective of the car changes. We hit the beach and the wind is suddenly stronger as we leave the shelter of the tree lined streets. There is always a fair bit of activity down here in the mornings. Joggers, cyclists, walkers, strollers and a lot of very happy dogs. We see a few of our mates, but it is a bit too nippy to stand and chat - we have to keep moving to keep warm.

As we move towards Elwood beach, the path rises slightly and presents one of my favourite panoramas. The gentle curve of the beach is lined with tall pine trees and in the distance behind them the tall city buildings loom, glinting now in the stronger sunlight. The white caps of the waves breaking on the shore are juxtaposed by the white dots of the seagulls huddled on the green field behind the beach. Away off the point the modernistic sculpture of the Westgate bridge winks and blinks with specks of light from the traffic pouring across it into town and a freighter makes it's way through the channel towards the port.

We lose the view as we stride on past the breakwater, with the waves surging on to it. They have been breaking onto the path during the night and there are patches of water and seaweed here and there. Pushkin steps around the puddles, but has to be dragged away from the weed. Around the bay we go. What a pity it is that Pushkin has the traffic sense and obedience of an aardvark. He would love to run on the sand, it is permitted now that 30 April has passed, but experience has taught me not to trust the little blighter.

Re-crossing Beach Road, and entering the comparative shelter of the residential area again, we feel warm, unlike the pair of doves huddled on the second storey balcony of the block of flats we pass. They are often there at this time of the year - I must watch out for them in summer. We head up Glenhuntly Road and then across to Glen Eira. There are a lot more people about now, including swarms of school kids larking around as they wait for the bus. This area always fascinates me. The architecture and the people reflect the splendid mix which makes Melbourne such a marvellous place to live.

Here is a block of shops which looks like a fortified Indian city, complete with watchtower: nearby the National Trust house is called Quat Quatta. An old Chinese couple wander by: a small boy with long plaits, dressed in full Hassadic rig, seemingly late for his lessons speeds past, giving Pushkin a wide berth.

We head for home now, Pushkin trotting along on familiar ground, looking forward to his warm Weetbix and an even warmer welcome from the pup, who will be joining us soon now that he is old enough. A hot mug of coffee, a bit of rye bread with cold cuts and cheese and a day ahead to do what I will. It is not all bad being made redundant.

FISHING

I learned to fish from the hunchbacked gardener employed by my grandfather. He had not always been a hunchback - Grandpa had sepia photographs of himself and his catches over the years. Often in the background was this ram rod straight shining black man who was barely recognisable as old bent Willy. I was one of the third generation in our family he taught the art of fishing - and he went on to give yet another set of kids the basic skills before he died. No one ever knew how old he was - he seemed ageless - but he outlasted my grandpa by thirty years. Grandpa was 82 when he died.

Willy taught us how to bait a hook; where the fish might be - you be the fish he used to say, where would you stay; how to let them taste the bait and when to strike. He taught us patience and a good deal more but I suppose his lasting gift was to encourage us to look around at all the wonders of the world in the quiet times when the fish weren't biting. I am not saying that this made me a greenie or a bushy - I am a city dweller first and foremost and a great believer in creature comforts - but it did make me appreciate the inner tranquillity which comes with fishing.

For me, fishing became something more than catching fish. I thought for many years it was. World records as a concept never held much interest. The idea was to catch more, and bigger fish, than anyone in your party. -  - We rarely threw anything back. As one of our crewmen on Kariba (his name was Manzi, which appropriately enough means water) used to say "Fish is fish" and if you didn't eat them there was always someone who would.

I suppose it was on Kariba that I first had some doubts about this process. The triggers was the weekend when we really got amongst the fish. The dam waters had risen following the rainy season, drowning insects by the million and feeding a population explosion of fish. We caught hundreds. They weren't wasted because fish was a commodity in short supply in Zimbabwe at that time and we had freezers on the boat. But I was concerned about this slaughter and spoke to game rangers about the dangers of over fishing. They assured me that we could never do any real damage to the fish population with rod and line. But ....... i couldn't help but wonder if they were right.

It was also on Kariba that the overwhelming glory of the wild really came home to me. The sunrises and sunsets on the Lake are unbelievable and the stars at night can only be described in cliches. Add to this heady mix 200 kilometres of game reserve filled with elephants, buffalo and assorted wild animals and you have a unique experience in the correct meaning of that overworked word. I have always abhorred hunting, so how could I catch fish?, asked my son, Matt after I had shamefully tried to force him to fish when he hated it. Hated the piercing of the wriggling worm, the hook in the fishes' mouths, their flapping in the bottom of the boat as they gasped for oxygenated water.

I cannot say that there was a Pauline conversion in a flash of light, but I knocked back an offer to go for marlin, because to me they equated with some of the magnificent land animals - leopards, lions, cheetahs. I also decided, after a couple of trips to the islands in the Indian Ocean that any kind of deep sea fishing, where a lure is dragged around for hours before a luckless fish succumbs and then is winched aboard on unbreakable line was not for me.

And so I came to fly fishing and catch and release. This seemed to me to overcome all my doubts and to optimise enjoyment. A high level of skill is required to interest any of the skittish fish, which tend to live in habitats of unequalled splendour,. The line used is the lightest possible to give the fish all the advantages and every fish is carefully handled as it is brought in to the rod before being released to swim and fight another day. I gloried in the streams and mountains where the best trout live - it didn't matter if I caught or not, this was real fishing.

But a cloud, no bigger than a man's hand has appeared on my horizon. I cannot get out of my mind the images evoked by a New Zealand guide telling us of a campaign in Germany aimed at stopping even catch and release. It features a man casting a worm to a beautiful bird, hooking it and bringing it in. Although he releases it gently, it flaps away, exhausted and traumatised. Can I go on hooking fish after that?