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How do I love thee? England, let me count the ways.

There are moments in everyone’s life which you can look back on and remember exactly where you were and what you were doing. It only takes one sound, one image or even the mere thought and you are transported back in an instant.

For me, this happens every two years. It is called supporting England in a major international football tournament.

In 1996, I was only allowed to stay up for the first half of the semi-final against Germany. I went to bed having seen Stefan Kuntz cancel out Alan Shearer’s early goal but only found out the result on the following morning’s news bulletin.

Two years later, Richard Pugh and I were the lucky students in our Year 8 Art class to be sat near enough the radio so as to be able to follow the commentary of the group game against Tunisia. When Paul Scholes curled in the clincher, we passed messages down the line to our class-mates with silent fist pumps and the international sign language for ‘2-0.’

Michael Owen’s historic goal against Argentina and David Beckham’s subsequent dismissal, which preceded the dreaded penalties, had me listening through headphones on the bottom bunk - the full game this time. We deserved to go through and there were tears when David Batty became the latest to suffer infamy from 12 yards.

Fast forward to the World Cup in 2006 and I was stood in a giant fan park in Gelsenkirchen among 50,000 sunburnt Englishmen (seriously, Rachel would have been in a minority of less than 1% females). Many fans were so drunk they had passed out and didn’t witness any of the quarter-final against Portugal. The party atmosphere turned ugly the second Cristiano Ronaldo fired in the winning penalty and we realised the dream was over. Bus windows were smashed and we were lucky to make it back to the train station. Rooney’s stamp on Carvalho, Ronaldo’s wink as he was sent off... it was like red rag to a bull in that sun-baked German field.

By the time 2010 came around, we were married and had moved to Kent. An appalling performance against Algeria in the group saw England booed off by the many thousands who had paid good money to fly to South Africa. This time, Rooney criticised the fans live on air as he walked off the field. It was a new low under Fabio Capello and Germany easily sorted us out in the knockout stages.

Following Euro 2012 during our (first) year in Australia was almost impossible due to the time difference between Ukraine and Melbourne - but more of this later. Still, we sat through yet more penalty pain as the two Ashleys - Young and Cole - came up short against the Italians in another quarter-final which proved one step too far.

Heartbreak turned to anger in the following years as we were knocked out before even completing the group stage in Brazil 2014 and then somehow managed to plunge even more miserable depths by going out to Iceland - Iceland! - in the next Euros. By now we had stumbled upon the combination of watching the TV coverage but immediately switching to Radio 5 Live on the final whistle. Not only was the analysis more honest and insightful but you were kept abreast of developments in the stadium after the final whistle, for instance the terrifying scenes caused by charging Russian hooligans after we’d draw with them in Marseille. Mark Chapman’s anchorage and Chris Waddle’s rants would go on to become our regular soundtrack, especially on the nights England went out.

Ivy was three when Gareth Southgate led us to the World Cup semi-finals in 2018. Rachel was away the night we played Colombia and finally managed to win a penalty shootout. The match kicked off at 6pm, from memory, so most of my day was spent working to a strict schedule that had Ivy in bed and virtually asleep by 5.45 - much earlier than normal - so I could be in position downstairs from the national anthems. I managed to stifle my yells of delight when the shootout went our way but did remove my shirt, such was the shock. Ivy watched the highlights of Jordan Pickford’s heroics over breakfast the next morning and declared that was wanted to be a ‘lady goalkeeper’ when she grew up.

But, if truth be told, she didn’t really enjoy the experience of watching games in my company. My tendancy to leap around and shout at the key moments scared her - it’s pretty out of character, in fairness - and I had not even spoken to her about Euro 2020 in the build-up to the tournament which, once again, found us battling the time zones from Australia, now our permanent residence.

However, the last few weeks have been a shared experience unlike any other, and I’m sure millions up and down the UK - and many more ex-pats around the world, for a variety of reasons - could say the same.

The majority of England’s games kicked off at 5am (2000 BST); I set an early alarm, Rachel got up too and there was Ivy alongside us, wrapped in a dressing-gown, blanket or whatever she had dragged from her room at that hour of the night. She knew none of the players at the start of the tournament but was soon querying why Phil Foden had been left on the bench against Scotland. She was asking for Three Lions to be played after the Germany game, decided Harry Kane was her favourite player after his brace against Ukraine in Rome and chastised Declan Rice and Kalvin Phillips at times during the semi-final triumph over Denmark back at Wembley. All the time in her pyjamas with the sun still some way from rising over New South Wales.

As we approached the final, she knew the entire starting XI and wanted to know if Bukayo Saka would retain his place on the right against Italy. News of Foden’s injury did not go down well.

And so it was, in the wee small hours of my 36th birthday, I found myself behind the wheel of the only car on the streets of Albury at a 24-hour McDonald’s drive-through for breakfast supplies and extra strong coffee with 5 Live once again bringing the Wembley build-up to the far side of the world. At times like this, in moments like this, that vast distance back to London is evident more than ever, yet we felt very much connected to the team nurtured by Southgate and which conducts itself in a way which makes me proud to be English. It is the dignity and integrity of the players, as much as their performances, which has been heart-warming this past month.

What a ride it has been. I have looked forward so much to every early start, never wanted the journey to end, always wanted one more game, one more celebration, one more rendition of Sweet Caroline. A staggering 30 million people watched the final on the BBC and ITV combined; there are few sports teams around the globe that have such power to bring a nation together. The All Blacks and India’s cricket team, perhaps. Because, in these moments, as Luke Shaw sent us leaping off the sofa in the second minute, roaring and punching the air, as Leonardo Bonucci bundled in the equaliser which punctured the balloon of optimism, as we shuffled nearer the edge of our seats during extra-time but barely uttered a word to each other, we are not customers, we are not spectators, we are not even fans. We are England. This is us, and what happens in these moments is etched into our identity.

Not penalties, we agonised, not again. Ivy kept smiling and clapping during the final coin toss and stood holding her Euro 2020 colouring sheet as encourgament to the takers, pointing at the trophy. “I want Kane to have this,” she whispered.

But the script which has become so familiar in our lifetime was played out yet again; Rashford, Sancho and Saka the unfortunate three to miss their penalties. Why does it always have to end like this? Ivy cried too. Welcome to the club. This is England.

Because like all those tournaments listed above, we will never forget where we were on 12 July 2021, when England played in their first final for 55 years. It will be the next trip through that Macca’s drive-through, memories of setting Ivy’s ‘Gro Clock’ to wake her at 4.30am, the haunting images of a distraught Saka being comforted by Southgate which bring it flooding back.

Shame on those who racially abused the penalty missers in the hours after the game; so much unifying work done by Southgate and the squad felt like it had been undone. But when Ivy’s prayer at bedtime was for ‘Rashford, Sancho and Saka as they return to their families’ it brought a different sort of tear to the eye: absolute pride in the young men whose tenacity and humility on the biggest stage has inspired my little girl and so many others like her.

Following England is often gut-wrenching, occasionally exhilarating, always utterly unforgettable.

Football’s Coming Home? The feeling never went away.

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Tasmania

Marketing executives of Australia, I bring good news. Your advertisement campaigns are working on my five-year-old daughter. Ivy only needs to hear the words “Did someone say KFC?” and she’ll instantly launch into a chorus of I Love It by Icona Pop. When asked what she hoped would happen in 2021, she didn’t wish for anything existential or even material, but rather answered: “That I get to watch Holey Moley.” But there’s one brand which stands out among the rest. We’ll pull up behind a ute at the traffic lights and hear from the back seat those immortal words: “Oh, what a feeling - Toyota.”

And there were certainly plenty of those moments as we started the new year with a road trip around the island state of Tasmania - 240km south of the mainland across the heaving Bass Strait. Right until the last moment, it looked like the trip might be scuppered by COVID as clusters in Sydney and Melbourne prompted other states to shut their borders but on this occasion, we were in the right place at the right time and the Apple Isle lay before us.

Needless to say, there were a few raised eyebrows along the way when we declared we had travelled from New South Wales - at one point we were even removed from a queue and had to answer further questions from management before gaining entry - but Tassie’s welcome couldn’t have been warmer. The people we met were so friendly and as for the place: well, where do you start?

At the beginning, I suppose, and the absolutely stunning Cataract Gorge in Launceston. Photographs simply can’t do its forested cliffs, glassy lake and ancient boulders justice and the temperature of the public swimming pool in the centre of the gorge took our breath away for a second time as Rachel wisely watched on with the towels poolside. We emerged from the water shivering - and with fellow tourists peering down bemused from the chairlift above - but very much refreshed.

Launceston, the second-largest city in Tasmania, hadn’t been forecast as one of the trip’s highlights but it proved to have been rather under-sold. The macaque monkeys (behind glass) in City Park, the windswept Tamar Island Wetlands and the hands-on Queen Victoria Museum were free attractions you’d pay good money to see elsewhere and Riverbend Park, in the city centre, boasts the best children’s playground I’ve ever seen. It’s no exaggeration to say Ivy would have spent all day there, so vast and varied is the site. Peering down over the park are four huge grain silos, now converted into a plush hotel with a fancy restaurant on ground level. Pricey, yes, but quality grub.

When you’ve been to Peppa Pig World, the bar for any other ‘world’ is set pretty high but where Seahorse World in the Tamar Valley might have been lacking Grandpa Pig’s Little Train, it compensated with a genuinely interesting tour of the tanks and even a chance to hold a little seahorse. From this breeding centre on the banks of the Tamar, seahorses are shipped to aquariums all around the world so if you’ve ever seen one, it probably came from there.

Our four nights in town were spent above a pub - better than it sounds or than we thought when we first pulled up - but there was a change of pace when we hit the east coast.

We quickly realised the weather in Tasmania can change almost as quickly as Boris Johnson’s COVID response and so it was that we huddled on a beach somewhere along the Bay of Fires eating our picnic lunch wrapped in jumpers and waterproofs as some pretty mean waves pounded the white sand. Even us crazy northern hemisphere types weren’t about to try swimming here.

Conditions at our east coast base were more clement, and naturally we hit the pool hard but also made full use of the other sports facilities - putting green, table tennis and basketball court to name but a few. Ivy’s ping-pong skills have improved exponentially since the turn of the year and some of our rallies were even worthy of the name. But every now and then comes a wild shot from the other end of the table which forces you to take evasive action as if facing a Pat Cummins bouncer.

Down the coast we drove, into the spectacular Freycinet National Park where the views across to Wineglass Bay are postcard-perfect. Peer over the edge and it’s a sheer drop to the rocks and waves below, look down at your feet and lizards are scurrying for cover. Disaster was averted at the last minute when the family parked next to us managed to retrieve the stuffed toy whose temporary loss had sent a little girl into floods of tears. What looked like a little elephant had in fact only been dropped a few yards from the car park at the top of the cliffs.

Swansea was a handy stopping point after that - a bit different to its Welsh namesake - but it was now all about the long run into Hobart. Of all the driving we did in Tasmania, less than 5% would have been straight and flat at the same time and those sweeping bends and undulations were never more evident than on the Tasman Highway which hugged rock faces and followed the bends of the Prosser River on the challenging and invigorating approach to the state’s capital.

Hobart, with a population of 250,000 or so, must be the hilliest city I’ve ever visited. There were cars parked at angles that didn’t look natural and even a walk to the closest intersection could be enough to raise a sweat.

But on flat ground a stone’s throw from the waterfront, the Salamanca Market truly showcases Hobart in its best light every Saturday. From tourist tat and cuddly toys to ornate wood carvings and local farm produce, there’s something to lighten everyone’s wallet although by far the longest queues were at the coffee vans. Classic Australia. The pandemic has forced Salamanca to trim its stall numbers and patron capacity, although social distancing in a market is about as likely as it is on the London Underground. However, in a part of the world which is totally COVID-free at the time of writing, mingling in a Tasmanian crowd carries none of the worries it would elsewhere.

Our thoughts were constantly drawn back to the UK not only by the daily news bulletins - reporting daily infection rates higher than Australia has faced in 12 months - but also its role in shaping Tasmania as we know it today. Nowhere is that more evident than Port Arthur, the former penal settlement where thousands of convicts were shipped in the 1800s for crimes ranging from cheese theft to murder. The remains of the penitentiary and neighbouring prison buildings are beautiful; their stories by comparison quite chilling and utterly thought-provoking as to the physical treatment and mental disintegration of so many men, young and old, having been extracted from their homeland with no hope of ever returning. Walking around the site makes you acutely aware of your liberty, even more so in the current climate.

You see, for all the places we visited in Tasmania, for all the experiences, the food tasted and selfies taken, it was simply the freedom to choose and to move which we had to be most thankful for. With the majority of our friends and family locked down on the other side of the world, doing it tougher than ever, there was absolutely nothing about our trip to take for granted.

It’s said Australia is the lucky country, and that rings true to an extent, although political choices have more to do with the state of play around the world than luck. Australia’s consistently tough stance on international arrivals during the pandemic has been a huge factor in keeping the COVID numbers here so low. Two week in hotel quarantine, at your own expense, is mandatory. Around the corner from where we were staying in Hobart was one such hotel with two soldiers guarding each door. Rules are rules here and they don’t muck about. On the one hand, it’s reassuring that we are in such a safe corner of the world right now - but what about getting back to England to see those loved ones again? When will a journey of that nature be feasible and, more to the point, when will Australia relax its stance to the point where we know we can make a ‘normal’ re-entry to the place we now call home? Forget the quarantine, simply getting a plane ticket is like finding a needle in a haystack. We hope to see you all again soon, we really do, but it's just impossible to put a date on that happening.

Meanwhile, sun-kissed Hobart looked a picture from the top of Mount Wellington and equally from the water as we took a ferry to MONA (the Museum of Old and New Art). The exhibits here were all to an incredibly high specification but often weird for the sake of being weird. More rewarding was the time we spent outside in the grounds, watching a band on stage while chowing down on chicken burgers (in the case of the meat-eating members of the family).

Another ferry carried us and the car to Bruny Island, where the pendulum of Tasmanian weather swung like never before. One minute we were slithering along muddy unsealed roads in search of the Cape Bruny Lighthouse (where the winds were too strong to reach the top of the walking track), the next emerging into warm sunlight at the Truganini Memorial overlooking the ‘Neck’ - a narrow spit of land joining the north and south parts of the island.

After the best part of a week in and around Hobart, it was nice to put the hammer down and cruise through the straw-coloured Midlands on the way north. A long line of red bricks running the length of the high street in Campbell Town bore the names (and crimes) or convicts who had not even survived the epic voyage to Australia, dying in transit. There were reminders everywhere of Tasmania’s convict past; less so the treatment of its Indigenous people.

While we had already been exposed to the island’s varying landscapes and weather patterns, entering Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park can only be likened to walking through the wardrobe into Narnia. Gone was anything even resembling summer as harsh alpine vegetation stood out against steely skies, with a cold wind blowing down the back of the neck in the way that makes you instantly reach for hooded tops. The steep climbs and harpin bends were all worth it just to witness the spectacle at altitude approaching 1,000 metres above sea level. “It’s due to snow the day after tomorrow” said the girl behind the Visitor Centre counter as she handed over our shuttle bus tickets. You could spend days bushwalking around Cradle Mountain, if you like that sort of thing, whereas we chose the hop- on-hop-off approach and still copped a fair pasting from the wind, rain - and UV. The chance to see Tasmanian devils and quolls up close, as well as a wombat in the car park, further added to the experience.

Back through the wardrobe into summer, or at least a north coast variant of it, and the final stop on our tour at tiny-but-picturesque Boat Harbour Beach. With water so clear you could almost count the grains of sand on the bottom, and rock pools and caves to explore every time the tide flowed out, the beach in itself might have fully sustained our four-day stay had the temperature been a smidgen higher.

As it was, we ventured slightly further afield to The Nut at Stanley (where one of the information boards mused ‘when is a nut not a nut?’ - an important consideration for allergy sufferers), Sisters Beach (horizontal rain although not unpleasant) and to Burnie one night to see Little Penguins emerge from the sea and return to their burrows. In rather less salubrious surroundings than the corresponding experience on Phillip Island, the night sky was pierced by the luminescent green glow from a nearby BP filling station. David Attenborough meets Alan Partridge, if you will.

Soon enough, those penguins would be heading back into the Bass Strait and so it was for us, boarding the Spirit of Tasmania for our overnight crossing which marked the end of our Tassie adventure. Housed in a cabin at the extreme bow of the vessel, our plunging path through a sea that was even choppier than normal felt like taking a ride in a washing machine being hit with cannon fire, so loud was the metallic crash of the hull against the waves every few seconds.

So the mouth of Port Phillip Bay had never looked more welcoming and it was a relief to set foot - or rather, wheels - on terra firma back in Melbourne.

But what a journey. In the land that time forgot, the extraordinary diversity and natural beauty of this island have carved out unforgettable memories. The devil is in the detail and I’ve no doubt we’ve only scratched the surface.

Oh, what a feeling - Tasmania.

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Great to get back to Melbourne after a year of restrictions and border closures

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Keep cool and carry on

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The wow that’s happening now

Children’s television is full of inanities, as every parent reading this will know. For example, who else questioned Madame Gazelle’s qualifications as an early years teacher after she decided the best way to introduce Peppa Pig’s French friend Delphine Donkey to the English language was a rendition of ‘bong-bing-boo, bing-bong-bing, bing-bong-bingly-bongly-boo’? I dread to think what Ofsted would make of such garbage.

But, hidden far beneath the surface, there lurk pearls of wisdom.

The star of Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood is often reminded to “enjoy the wow that’s happening now” and while we in turn sing it back to Ivy when the situation demands, it’s a mantra that applies just as much to us adults, too.

It’s in our nature, mine certainly, to want to plan ahead and shape the narrative of the next year or so. That might be getting a steer on what’s happening at work, booking a holiday, working out travel plans or other, more personal, issues. And with COVID-19 having taken much of that control out of our hands in 2020, a year which for many of us can’t end soon enough, it’s even more tempting to wish the time away until we can do all those things we’ve been deprived of during this annus horribilis.

But with a nod to Daniel Tiger, there are definitely positives aplenty when you put down the binoculars and pop on the reading glasses to refocus on what’s closer at hand. For one thing, we’re fortunate here in NSW to be enjoying far greater freedom than the Victorians just down the road, while those in Melbourne have been doing it even tougher still.

Looking back a year to our arrival in Australia, I was feeling frustrated at driving down dead ends in search of jobs that weren’t there or pay for work that wasn’t forthcoming. Admittedly I am still a sports journalist unemployed in that particular sphere but taking on a new full-time role at Albury North Public School has been one of the best decisions I’ve made. Originally there one day a week to produce the school newsletter, my remit has expanded into more of a PR position with self-taught video production thrown into the mix. It’s such a vibrant environment, being around 200+ kids every day with a fantastic staff to bounce off (not literally, although football at recess can get quite involved) and a real feeling of job satisfaction and making a difference. Much like the newsroom, no two days are the same. Last term I ended up interviewing the Mayor of Albury, producing a last-minute COVID-19 pull-out, presenting the possibility of a new school uniform - complete with a student debate - and liaising with the local media. Having been on the other side of that particular fence, flagging up the story of a swimming champion in Year 6 felt fairly routine but it was a different matter when our NSW/VIC pen pal scheme hit the headlines. There was heaps of interest straight away and I spent a day co-ordinating visits from TV crews and radio reporters, with further interviews taking place throughout the week. Talk about feeling alive; it was so good to see the kids and teachers getting the platform their hard work deserves.

Another unexpected ‘wow’ was a week’s holiday in Jervis Bay, about 200km south of Sydney. We’d been due to fly interstate, like so many others, but COVID put the kibosh on that and forced a rethink. So a place we’d never thought of visiting turned out to be the most fantastic base for our few days there, with Callala Beach every bit the relaxing hideout we’d hoped for. With the sea literally a stone’s throw away from our door, we were there every day with Ivy rather happier to brave the chilly waters than her parents. One kayaking incident aside, our beach experience was terrific. Huskisson was our launching point for a whale watching cruise which delivered not only close-up encounters with the behemoth and its calf but the chance to glide alongside a school of dolphins closer to the shore, away from the huge ocean swell. You couldn’t beat Tilbury Cove, Culburra Beach for shell-collecting or sandcastle-building or Greenwell Point for fish & chips, where the pelicans behaved like seagulls waiting for the foolish tourist to throw them a morsel.

We spent a day up the coast in Kiama, where the spectacular blowhole and company of some dear friends made our crawl through the Princes Highway roadworks worthwhile. The road to Currarong, by comparison, was almost deserted, but drama of a different kind lay ahead. As we entered the tiny seaside town, plumes of black smoke from a hazard reduction burn - crucial ahead of the fire season - filled the sky and swirled through some of the back streets. “This is a stress-free area” insisted the lady serving behind the counter of the convenience store as she confidently assured us everything was under control. But not so, it turned out, as we discovered after exploring the rock pools and getting back on the road. Having traversed the 10km gravel road to and from the imposing Point Perpendicular Lighthouse, atop cliffs overlooking the spot where we had seen the whales, security personnel at the gatehouse warned us against returning to Currarong as the fire was now out of control.

For all the beauty of the coast, one of our favourite stops was inland at the Shoalhaven Zoo in Nowra. Nestled between the river and a sheer rock face, it’s uncomplicated and unpretentious but with a cracking selection of animals including a farm section for the little ‘uns. Ivy just loved patting the kangaroos. When in Rome...

Eventually it was time to leave the coast behind - for another 10 weeks, at least. Our route back took us through the mighty Kangaroo Valley, down a series of steep hairpin bends and up even more on the other side. We passed a group of cyclists next to the historic Hampden Bridge. The looming ascent must have looked to them as the Grand Colombier had to an ailing Egan Bernal in the Tour de France just days earlier.

So, one term left in this year of years as we approach the the run-in to Christmas and the powerful heat of summer. One eye on planning for next year, that’s for sure, but also accepting the challenges of today.

Watching our friend Naomi Mitchell run the race of her life to finish 14th at the London Marathon has inspired me to start running again. I’ve been out three of the last four days, further each time, and, coupled with some healthy eating, I’m starting to feel the benefits - physical and mental - already. I’m determined to keep pushing myself and get into shape. It’s not something I’ve enjoyed that much before but if Naomi can do 26.2 miles in two-and-a-half hours, I can get to 5k and beyond.

Positive change is in the air. Who knows, I might learn a new language too.

All together now...

Bong-bing-boo, bing-bong-bing, bing-bong-bingly-bongly-boo!

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Fitzroy Falls - wow

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Meeting the locals

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On the beach

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Hampden Bridge, Kangaroo Valley

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Thirsty Thursdays, a new tradition. The coffee van is next to the petrol station.

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Red sky at night over Thurgoona

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A day out with the Barber family. Our car had been written-off an hour earlier.

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The sleeper train

There are times in life when you prepare for every eventuality, yet manage to be caught out by something unforeseen. This blog is going to tell you about one of those times.

Of course, we knew our mini-break to Sydney was not going to be incident-free. After all, the Victoria-New South Wales border, a mere stone’s throw away, had just been shut for the first time in a century and with State Premiers holding press conferences more often than they were changing their clothes, everyone’s travel plans may as well have been scrawled with a stick in wet sand at the beach, so quickly were those arrangements being revised or even scrapped. Our vacation was not interstate, although with some calling for the border to be temporarily moved north of Albury in order to ease movement between there and Wodonga, even that definition seemed liable to change at any moment.

So there remained a degree of uncertainty even as we bumped our suitcase up the front steps of Albury railway station with the time approaching 10pm. We had decided to make the journey by train and not only that, but to experience the sleeper service from our regional base to the state capital. This news raised the eyebrows of everyone we told but, undeterred, we vowed to relish what would be an experience unlike any we’d had before. Admittedly, we hadn’t envisaged temperature checks, a brief police interview and the signing of official papers declaring we hadn’t entered Victoria in the previous 14 days but hey, in the crazy world of 2020, in for a penny, in for a pound.

And so, with no alarms arising from this unusually heavy boarding process, we were onto the platform and aboard the night train, as Ivy had been calling it during an excited build-up. Final reassurances arrived as the speakers crackled and passengers were told ‘you are all permitted to be making this journey.’

All throughout the day, we had been checking the local and national news for any updates that might have scuppered the trip, yet here we were, just moments away from getting under way. We kicked our shoes off, made the beds and began to get comfortable.

I decided to use the bathroom which sat between our two sleeping compartments. It was fairly basic, although more roomy than a regular train toilet, with a shower we’d already been warned didn’t get much above lukewarm. I flushed and checked on the girls before returning to my quarters. It was a lengthy flush, to be fair, but maybe this was all part of getting enough water through the system at the start of our long journey.

Five minutes later, the flush was still going. I re-opened the toilet door and watched the water continuing to surge down the bowl. I began to feel that something wasn’t right but it was difficult to know exactly what or how to intervene. We weren’t due to leave for another few minutes so I pressed the blue call button in my compartment. No-one came. I pressed the button again, before opening the toilet door for a third time to see the water had now reached the top of the bowl and was beginning to overflow. Ducking back into my compartment, a horrible soggy feeling at the end of my toes confirmed the flood was spreading. I sprang off the train and was relieved to see a member of staff walking in our direction armed with mop, bucket and a smorgasbord of disinfectants.

“These trains are 40 years old,” he told me cheerily. “Sometimes the flush just needs a little wiggle.”

We were on our way.

Sydney was excellent, a sleepless night on the sleeper notwithstanding, and we appreciated the value of being able to travel more than ever before. Time spent with friends at Darling Harbour and the Olympic Park really was precious and the sightseeing triumvirate of Sydney Harbour Bridge, the Opera House and Bondi Beach seemed to hold even more magic than normal. Ivy’s glee at spotting each of them, and in particular her joy at digging in the Bondi sand, was just awesome and a reminder that all three of us were now creating memories together - not just Rachel and me.

The temptation in these circumstances is always to reach for the phone and start taking photos - and we did get a few as you’ll see below - but it felt particularly important to pause and take it all in, to savour the moment, especially given what the last few months have held.

Australia was still in lockdown at the start of Term 2 (post-Easter) and that meant I was continuing to home-school Ivy, something we both expected to continue indefinitely. It was a huge bonus, therefore, when students were allowed to return to school for a one day a week and then, fairly quickly, to resume full-time face-to-face learning in the classroom. I might not have been able to see it at the time but the period Ivy and I spent together at home, mixing academia with games, sport and bike rides, was an unexpected blessing and a time we’ll probably never have again.

God’s provision is a bit like that, glaringly obvious in the rear-view mirror even if the fog beyond the windscreen doesn’t appear to be clearing. The blessings of our own house, full-time work for me (first time since coming to Australia), great reports of Ivy’s progress at school and burgeoning friendships to go alongside the established ones we treasure so much - both here and in the UK - remind us to keep the faith for what lies ahead.

Of course, some questions remain unanswered but, like the train route back from Sydney, there will be many more twists and turns (seriously, what is that stretch between Goulburn and Yass all about?) and we’re very much on board for the ride.

Eight hours later, we were setting foot back on the platform in Albury. This had been more than just a long weekend away, given the circumstances, and we felt a certain satisfaction that everything had come together.

Flushed with success, you could say.

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Sydney

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All aboard the night train

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Celebrating Rachel's birthday

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Sunday morning walks around Wonga Wetlands