Friday, I'm in love ... Manly (Sydney's very own Blackpool)

I moved to Sydney on May 1st 1997. It was a Thursday. I'd waited all my life to live in the UK under a Labour Government and I left England on the very day that Tony Blair was elected. I've heard mixed reports about how he did...


Moving to Oz wasn't really a difficult decision. I was working for a big company in London and they offered to transfer me Down Under. I'd never been to Australia, but I’d seen Crocodile Dundee and Neighbours so I pretty much knew the score. Plus I’d had the odd pint of Fosters over the years. So, I knew the beer too. But the main thing was that I was over London. Over it.

I know that the English have a reputation for moaning about the weather, but to be fair to us - to them - the weather is bloody awful for a good proportion of the year. For me it was the drizzle, the fog and the frost. In that order. And that was just your average summer's day! I will say one thing, the English actually don't moan about much in general. It’s a total myth that they (we) are whingers. We're a pretty stoic bunch. But the weather? That's a different story entirely. English weather has the ability to sap all hope, to exhaust all energy, to drain all reason, to fuddle your brain and leave you angry, frustrated and really rather peeved and miffed. Most weekends! Multiply that by 52 - and throw in Wimbledon (it's guaranteed to rain during the Wimbledon fortnight) - and you can go a bit doo-lally in Ol’ Blighty. Things can get a bit unpredictable, with cancelled plans, poorly chosen clothing and lost umbrellas. It’s a very stressful way to live. 

I knew the game was up when I spent an entire day at Wimbledon huddled under an umbrella. Just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Cliff Richard appeared in the stands and started singing. Live. Well, as live as Cliff Richard gets. That was it. When the rain rains and Cliff sings, it’s time to call it quits. To pack up and move on. 

So it’s true. And it’s fickle. I moved to Sydney - all 10,600 miles - for the weather ... and also to be by the sea. My whole life I'd wanted to live by the sea. I'd spent plenty of rollicking weekends as a kid in Blackpool (see pic 1) - the closest beach-town to my home-town - to know that the beach and seaside was (is) the place to be. 

Somehow, life has a habit of seeming to be that little bit better - that little bit brighter - by the sea. When I was growing up there was nothing better than a summer weekend in Blackpool, especially when the Illuminations (fancy street lights) were on, and the Pleasure Beach (fancy fun-fair) was in full swing! It was magical.

So, with Blackpool on my mind and with dreams of soft sand between my toes and a permanent stick of rock in my mouth, I packed my bags, hopped on a plane, set off for Sydney and promptly ... lived no-where near the beach. Doh!

I have no idea what I was thinking. I honestly don't. I think I was in a state of perpetual jet-lag. It lasted for 12 years. Don't get me wrong, in the course of those twelve years I visited the beach hundreds of times. I only lived a few kms  from some of Sydney's best beaches. But I chose to live closer to the inner-city - to the city center - than the sea. Even now I can't explain it. I went all that way to be beside the seaside  - and I ended up missing by a good few miles. 

It’s not like the beach is hard to miss. Sydney is full of beaches. Most of them are pretty accessible, close to the action, safe and relatively affordable - at least compared to London.

& then I met Picky. 


We met on Chaweng, the main beach of Koh Samui, Thailand. We were both on holiday. She was living and working in Sydney. We were together in Sydney for a year before Picky went back to Germany to study. We did that whole ‘long-distance thing’. For three whole years. Australia to Germany redefines the ‘long’ in long-distance. When we eventually became a couple in Sydney, Picky asked me why we weren’t living near the beach. I didn’t have an answer. I was mute.

Her question stirred-up all those old feelings. Those weekends in Blackpool at the Pleasure Beach came flooding back. The kiss-me-quick hats, the Blackpool rock, the donkeys on the beach, the striped deck-chairs. The fish & chips. With mushy peas. The lot.

We sold up & moved to Manly beach (pic 2). 

When it comes to the beach in Sydney it really is a toss up between Bondi and Manly. I'm not a 'native' so I don't get involved in the 'Manly's better / Bondi's better' debate. I reckon visitors to Sydney should see both and spend time in both. They are both stunning. Both beaches are terrific. 


But I love Manly and I love Manly beach. 


It's probably just because it’s where I live. It's where Picky and I live and, of course, it's Pearl's very first home. So it’s special.

Manly Beach. 


It's a little slice of picture-perfect paradise. It's the place I call home, the one place where I really feel ‘at home’. You really can feel ‘at home’ in a place. I’m sure you have too at some point, or perhaps you do right now. It might not be at the beach. It might be in the mountains, in the countryside, in the city. Wherever. But there’s no feeling quite like the feeling of being ‘at home’. It’s a unique feeling.

It took me a long time to find my way to the beach. Too long. Or maybe not. Maybe you have to miss something to really appreciate it when you finally have it. Or maybe you just have to meet someone special like Picky. Someone who leads you ‘home’. 

Manly beach. I bloomin’ love it!

Have a great weekend.

Pip pip

Ps ... I've got guns in my sights. I’m taking a pot-shot at the subject of guns and the USA over the weekend. It might be a tad controversial. I’m in ‘one of those moods’. I’d love you to have a read and maybe comment ... particularly if you live or have lived in the good ol’ US of A!