Calling a pub the Isle of Wight in a town that’s already nicked the name Cowes from said British island is hardly a statement of desire on the part of the locals to strike out from the motherland. So, with their visitors from the UK hoping to experience as much Aussie flavour as possible in their three-week jaunt, it didn’t bode well.
But, as Bruce pushed the door open and began to descend the stairs, the unmistakable strains of Peter Garrett wafted across the bar. No, not reneging on another environmental promise he made before his election to Rudd’s government, but from back in the day…
“How can we dance when our earth is turning?
How do we sleep when our beds are burning?”
Propping up the bar were a couple of mullets; behind it was a superb handlebar moustache. A woman from WA with highlights in her hair was soon exhorting Fran and her friend to stick around for karaoke later in the evening. The head of a shark was displayed proudly on the wall behind the bar. The taps offered a selection of unerringly shit beers. Despite the name, it was true Australia, country style, after all.
Keeping with the mood, the visitors plonked their sleeping eight-month-old under the screen showing computer-generated horse-racing and took in their surrounds.
“If ever they were to remake Withnail and I in Australia,” offered Bruce, “this pub could be used for the scene in which he gets accused of being a ‘perfumed ponce’.” Nods of agreement.
Rather disconcertingly, Fran spotted two pictures of a large man in his 60s, sprawled lasciviously across a bed in a state of some undress hanging next to the shark; it was something one might expect to find in certain Collingwood haunts, but not here. One image – the more worrying of the two – had also been made into a clock.
“Country pub ticked off the list?” asked Bruce.
“Check,” said Matt, heading for the door.
Phillip Island was to help him get much ticked off his to do list. Within 100 yards of the first sign warning of wallabies, two wallabies appeared at the side of the road. The trees were full of galahs, Rosellas, koalas and kookaburras. The fridge was filled with cans of Bundy and coke. The randy penguins did their parade on cue.
It mattered little, therefore, that for all the natural beauty of its coastline (inland it’s a bit, well, meh), the island lacked character. The visitor centres had taken the motorway service stations of England as their architectural template and the towns – Rhyll, San Remo, Cowes – offered little of interest: perhaps the kooky folk who’ve inhabited the Yarra Valley, Macedon Ranges, Mornington Peninsula, the Dandenongs and so on are put off by the annual invasion of the Moto GP.
If proof were needed, it was found in the cooked breakfasts; they came with toast – plain, white toast. Now who, in their right mind, thinks they can get away with that in Victoria these days. The people demand sourdough as a very minimum, preferably from some obscure bakery and baked in a totally impractical shape. Honestly, what were the cafe owners thinking?
