Day 28. Hobart, Tasmania

The horrible weather predicted for the next week sees us change our flights in search of some sunshine, so today is our last day in Tassie.

We take the self-guided historic tour of Hobart which - despite the drizzle - keeps us entertained until Scott and Katie meet us for one last night out.

They've been absolutely fanatastic hosts; generous to a fault, highly amusing and not averse to cracking a bottle or two late into the night. Typical of their kindness is Scott's offer to drag himself out of bed at 4.30am tomorrow to run us to the airport.

Thanks a million guys, it's been a blast, we'll pass on your regards to the locals back at The Shakespeare.

Day 27. Hobart, Tasmania

We say goodbye to Steve today as he flies back to Sydney to complete the last leg of his holiday.

He's been the perfect travelling companion - always happy to get his round in, good at building campfires and handy with a map when Wend's navigation has gone awry. He cheats at cards mind you and the chronic flatulence does grate after a while.

Once we've packed him off to the airport we gatecrash the celebrations for Scott's Mam's birthday. Judy is a sprightly 81 today and we toast her health with a few beers while tucking in to a steak dinner.

Scott's dad, Harry, regales us with tales of what he got up to during his 7 years in the UK. It sounds like he managed to live in north, south, east and west London, working in increasingly unlikely jobs as he went. He escaped the capital only briefly, to tread the boards as a Butlin's redcoat in Wales.

Never a dull moment when Harry's around I suspect...Hi-Di-Hi!

Day 26. Hobart, Tasmania

In the morning we take a walk through a nearby forest to see some of the giant gum trees the camp manager has told us about.

Mighty impressive they are too. Absolute beasts, well over 150 ft high and God only knows how old.

We then make our way back to Hobart to hook up with Scott and Katie again. We've a lot of catching up to do as we bore the poor buggers rigid with our travelling tales from the past fortnight.

Day 25. Wayatinah, Tasmania

There's a tennis court at our latest campsite so I decide to give Steve a sporting masterclass.

He beats me in straight sets.

Day 24. Cradle Mountain National Park, Tasmania

So at last, the big one. The hike we’ve been looking forward to since booking the holiday – the 8 hour trail to the top of Cradle Mountain.

And it looks like we’re going to manage it with ease, until we bottle it with only 100 metres or so to the summit. In our defence, that last stretch comprises big, shiny-sided boulders and loose scree. And conscious of how dramatically a broken ankle, leg or back would influence our ability to drive back to Hobart, we decide to abort.

It’s another special day for wildlife spotting. We wake to find a gang of Pademelons hopping about outside the vans. Smaller than a wallaby and cute as a button, they’re chuffed to bits when we throw them the banana skins from our breakfast.

Our snake count rises to three when out on the trail (though as Steve points out – today’s specimen is barely bigger than an earthworm and probably as dangerous).

Then, just as we’re waiting for the shuttle bus to take us back to camp, we spot another Wombat. Much more brazen than his friend from yesterday, he’s happy to carry on grazing as we sneak up for a closer peak. Excellent stuff.

Someone pinches my camera charger from the camp kitchen in the evening. This pisses me off massively as I suspect finding a replacement will turn out to be major drama.

Day 23. Cradle Mountain National Park, Tasmania

The sunshine returned with knobs on today, so we dust off the old walking boots and complete a not-so-quick circuit of Dove Lake.

With Cradle Mountain forming a dramatic backdrop and the colours of the water changing with each passing hour it makes for a fantastic hike.

Towards the end of the afternoon we spot something large shuffling about in the undergrowth. Like a pygmy hippo with hair, it has the comical gait of something that’s way too heavy for its legs.

WOMBAT! Screams Wend.

And I think she was probably right.

Day 22. Mole Creek, Tasmania

After a quick saunter around Cataract Park on the outskirts of Luanceston, we drive west for a couple of hours, heading towards Tassie’s wildest and most remote region. It’s also the chilliest part of the state – noticeably cooler that the east - so we start rummaging in our backpacks for those vests and thermal undies we were so sure we’d packed.

First stop is a gorgeous campsite at Mole creek where Wend and Steve spot a platypus yards from where we’ve pitched.

I of course, miss it.

Day 21. Launceston, Tasmania

There’s not a lot to say about Launceston. A few nice Art Deco buildings, some good restaurants and a couple of decent pubs. it's in one of these that we bump into a couple of kindred spirits - Rudi and Naomi, who are planning a world trip in an old VW combi that Rudi's been renovating for the past year.

He's bursting to show off his pride and joy, so after a couple of beers and a curry we're invited back to their place.

The van is indeed a thing of great beauty and all Rudi's hard work has obviously paid off handsomely. He's a talented lad, and later, we're treated to a jamming session involving guitar, ukulele and banjo. He also claims to be pretty handy with a didgeridoo.

Fortunately we're spared that.

Day 20. Launceston, Tasmania

Listening to the weather reports on the radio we realise how fortunate we’ve been with the amount of sunshine that’s come our way.

Much of the mainland has been battered by storms, with Brisbane copping for 10 inches of rain in the last 24 hours alone.

Inevitable then, that we’d end up with some of the wet stuff eventually and we wake this morning to the mother of all downpours. This scuppers our planned trip to the Bay of Fires and we head instead to the cascading waterfall at St.Columba.

We love a good waterfall, and the recent deluge meant this one was in full flow. It’s a short walk through a dense rainforest to reach the bottom and if anything, the numbers and sheer size of some of the ferns are more impressive than the waterfall itself.

Less impressive were the number of leeches present. One manages to sink his gnashers into Steve’s calf, drawing a trickle of blood and a cry of disgust from Wend.

Not much point in hiking in the rain, so we drive to Tasmania’s second city, Launceston, to sit out the bad weather for a couple of days and take in some culture.

Ok, ‘culture’ might be stretching it a bit, but we do catch some live music in the evening - a hopelessly mismatched duo comprising a fairly awful female vocalist and a pretty good guitarist.

We won’t be looking out for their debut album.

Day 19. Bicheno and St.Helens, Tasmania

Ever since Wend laid eyes on Scott and Katy’s Tasmanian devil oven glove back in Hobart she’s talked about little else. I’ve had to reassure her on a daily basis that, yes, we would see a devil during our stay and - more importantly - yes, I would buy her a novelty oven glove.

She’s very low maintenance my missus.

A week in and there hasn’t been a sniff of a devil anywhere. So we put things right today by visiting Natureworld; a rather sad looking safari park that’s well past it’s sell by date. Half the enclosures contain nothing but rotting tree trunks and mud, there’s a walk-through aviary housing a couple of the most miserable Kookaburras in Oz and the park ranger, who was supposed to keep us informed and amused, was a humourless twerp.

But it is home to around a dozen Tasmanian devils, and they brighten our visit immeasurably.

Threatened in the wild by a particularly virulent cancer that’s decimating their population, this little colony seems determined to go against the Natureworld grain and thrive in their grim surroundings.

Very entertaining they are too, especially at feeding time, when the younger devils start fighting over lumps of kangaroo carcass. They have a ferocious appetite and can put away up to 40% of their body weight in under half an hour. More impressive still, is the power they can muster from their jaws; pound for pound, only a great white shark can crush bones more effectively.

We like them a lot. And Wend’s morning was complete when we find the holy grail lurking in the corner of Natureworld’s souvenir shop…a Tasmanian devil oven glove.

Day 18. Douglas Apsley national park, Tasmania

Another longish hike today and this time it’s far more our type of thing. Starting with a tough climb up a seemingly never ending hill we stop for breath and chocolate rations, before dropping into a deep gorge to follow the river bed a couple of miles back to where we started.

The scenery is jaw droppingly gorgeous. Huge boulders carved into improbable forms by the fast flowing waters of the rainy season are bordered by lush foliage on both banks with exotic birdlife calling down from the valley walls.

It’s a little piece of paradise. And the best bit of all, is that we have it entirely to ourselves. We don’t meet another soul until we reach the plunge pool at the end of the walk – a German couple, who are treated to the sight of three funny shaped Brit’s stripping to their undies and diving straight in.

Day 17 . Freycinet national park, Tasmania

Freycinet is Tasmania’s most popular national park and undoubtedly one of the prettiest. To our eyes, this is a bit of a double-edged sword; it means the facilities and walking tracks are immaculate, but it also gives the place an overly sanitised and regimented feel.

That said, we enjoyed a lovely early evening walk yesterday out to Cape Tourville and went hell for leather today with a 5 hour hike to the aptly named Wineglass Bay.

The beach is ranked as one of the very best in Australia and with a mile or so of fine white sand, crystal clear waters and a backdrop of lush vegetation on the surrounding hills, it’s not hard to see why.

As I found to my cost, the sea is very deceptive here though; dazzling aqua marine hues and gently lapping surf give the impression it should be as warm as the Caribbean, but it’s colder than anything I’ve ever swam in – think Whitley Bay in January and you’re getting close. I suppose this makes sense when you consider the next bit of land you’d hit if you sailed south would be the Antarctic.

Too cold for Wend and Steve that’s for sure. Wend has an excuse of course, being a soft southerner, as for Steve? well yet again, he brings shame on the Geordie nation.

Day 16. Freycinet National Park, Tasmania

Here are just a few of the things Steve has an intolerance to: butter, milk, cheese, bread, pasta, pastry, biscuits and chocolate. In fact, you name it and chances are, Steve won’t be able to eat it.

The dairy based stuff swells his glands and results in a rampant rash. While anything containing glutton has him running for the nearest toilet.
This is a nightmare for the poor bloke, but great fun for me and Wend. We tease him by breaking off thick squares of Cadbury’s, closing our eyes, and feigning ecstasy as the delicious cocoa melts in our mouths. We take delight in pouring creamy custard over our puddings and we simply can’t help ourselves when we pass one of Australia’s legendary pie emporiums; asking his opinion on whether to go for the steak & onion, or lamb & rosemary.

Well, today he snapped. Sobbing like heroin addict who hadn’t had a fix for years he ordered a minced beef pastry topped off with creamed potato and chives.

We were expecting gastric fireworks, but sadly, his bowels behaved themselves and he managed to survive the afternoon unscathed. Moreover, he reckons the experience was an epiphany, proving that his allergies are merely psychosomatic and he’s been an attention seeking drama queen since childhood.

There’s much amusement after dinner when a possum joins us at the table to tuck into our leftovers. We leave her to it as we get ready for bed then check on her once more to find she’s fetched her baby who is clinging to her back as she licks the frying pan.

We probably shouldn’t encourage such behaviour as they’re treated as vermin over here, but it has to be said, they aren’t half cute.

Day 15. Triabunna, Tasmania

The state run campsites here are fantastic.

Invariably in prime locations, they are about as far removed from those fuddy duddy Brit run sites with their ridiculous rules and regulations as it’s possible to get.

Clean toilet facilities are provided, along with cold running water. And unlike any site we’ve ever stayed on in the UK, they encourage campers to build their own fires – even supplying piles of logs.

But best of all, they’re completely free. Arrive early enough, and you have your pick of the pitches without spending an Australian cent.

They really are a revelation, but after 3 days without a wash or change of underpants, we’re in need of a hot shower. So we leave the island and drive north to the small town of Triabunna where the commercially run campsite has all mod cons.

A fairly non-descript town, but the weather’s turned iffy, so it serves our purpose and lets us get some boring but necessary stuff out of the way, such as laundry and catching up with the blog.

Day 14. Bruny Island, Tasmania.

Another walk today, less eventful than yesterday but enjoyable enough, rewarding us with spectacular views along the island’s southern coastline. We do see another snake, but after speaking to one of the park rangers yesterday, we’re less worried about being bitten.

Yes, the snakes on the island are venomous, and will make anyone unfortunate enough to be bitten feel very sick indeed. But unlike most snakes, they don’t inject their venom. Instead, they scrape their fangs across the flesh and leave a venomous residue. So as long as you wear long pants or gaiters, there’s little chance of the snake breaking your skin and inflicting serious harm.

Which is reassuring.

Day 13. Bruny Island, Tasmania.

We tackle our first hike of the holiday today; a three hour trip out to Fluted Cape which brings us fantastic views and exposure to some very peculiar animals.

First up, this little half hedgehog, half porcupine thing ambles into view; Wend reckons it’s an echidna, and were lucky to see it as they’re normally nocturnal. He isn’t shy mind you, posing for a photo as he forages in the undergrowth with his long snout.

Next, a snake slithers out of the undergrowth, he’s out of sight before I can take a picture – and in this case, I’m not too fussed about missing out on a close up.

Wend then spots something white and furry in the bush; it’s one of the small wallabies native to the island. And he too doesn’t seem fussed as we sneak up for a snap. It has to be said, his camouflage is rubbish, I guess there’s nothing living over here that’ll eat him – other than humans of course, apparently the locals love a good wallaby burger.

Oddest creature was saved for last. Lurking under a rock by the shoreline we find the crab that time forgot; like one of the baddies in Star Wars, he has a face only a mother could love.

Later, we’re faced with a tricky dilemma. Do we risk driving along a beach to the best campsite on the island or do we play it safe. The sand looks firm enough, but our rental agreement warns us not to take the vans anywhere near the sea.

As we sit and ponder, an Aussie bloke pulls up in his big 4x4 Mazda and winds down his window.

“Hey guys, do you know where the cool camp site near the beach is?”

We point him in the right direction and watch enviously as he scoots across the sand – doubtless heading towards the best pitch on the site.

“Oh, bollocks to it, let’s give it a go” says Steve.

And we’re off. Re-enacting that scene form The Thomas Crown Affair, where Steve McQueen shows off to Faye Dunaway in his beach buggy..

Then Steve gets stuck (that’s Steve Lewis by the way, not McQueen). The tide’s on the way in and it looks like his van is on the way out. Luckily we’re not far from the camp though, and the Aussie with the 4x4 is able to drag us out.

So here’s to Mark from Melbourne and his magic Mazda. He saves us the effort of making a ridiculous excuse to the hire company and about £15,000 to replace the van.

Day 12. Bruny Island, Tasmania.

Both the campervans are decrepit pieces of junk so we break ourselves in gently with a leisurely drive to the ferry for Bruny Island on Tasmania’s south coast.

If Tasmania’s that funny little island that sits off southern mainland Australia, then Bruny Island is the funny little island that sits off southern Tasmania.

It’s small, but perfectly formed. A beautiful, sparsely populated place formed of two lumps of land joined by thin isthmus in the middle. The northern lump is where we spend most of today, crossing to the hillier southern side at dusk to set up camp on a lovely little site. Me and Steve do the hunter gatherer thing of collecting wood and building a fire while Wend gets the nosh ready.

Believe me, this is about as daring as it gets for three townies like us, but there’s more excitement to come at nightfall when we take a trip to a nearby beach to catch a glimpse of a colony of fairy penguins.

We join a small crowd at a specially built lookout and do what they’ve been doing for the past hour – stare intently and fruitlessly - at the bit of ocean where the penguins are meant to exit before waddling to their burrows in the dunes.

Patience is required for something such as this, and after twenty minutes of peering at a murky strip of sand we’ve just about had enough. Suddenly though, there’s a squawk from the beach and 4 or 5 little fella’s are heading towards us.

This is going to be great; a genuine piece of animal magic is coming our way and we have ringside seats. A Japanese tourist to our left has other ideas however, he whips out his camera and blinds the lot of them with flash photography. Of course, this also succeeds in scaring the poor things to bits and puts paid to any of us seeing anything of note at close range.

Moron.

As we walk dejectedly back to the van cursing Tokyo Joe and his Nuking Nikon, justice is dished out sublimely. He’s still annoying everyone at the lookout, so misses the penguin that passes right in front of us. We stop in our tracks and gawp at the curious little creature, who instead of scurrying off, simply sidles up to my foot for a good old sniff.

A strange end to an eventful day.

Day 12. Bruny Island, Tasmania.

Both the campervans are decrepit pieces of junk so we break ourselves in gently with a leisurely drive to the ferry for Bruny Island on Tasmania’s south coast.

If Tasmania’s that funny little island that sits off southern mainland Australia, then Bruny Island is the funny little island that sits off southern Tasmania.

It’s small, but perfectly formed. A beautiful, sparsely populated place formed of two lumps of land joined by thin isthmus in the middle. The northern lump is where we spend most of today, crossing to the hillier southern side at dusk to set up camp on a lovely little site. Me and Steve do the hunter gatherer thing of collecting wood and building a fire while Wend gets the nosh ready.

Believe me, this is about as daring as it gets for three townies like us, but there’s more excitement to come at nightfall when we take a trip to a nearby beach to catch a glimpse of a colony of fairy penguins.

We join a small crowd at a specially built lookout and do what they’ve been doing for the past hour – stare intently and fruitlessly - at the bit of ocean where the penguins are meant to exit before waddling to their burrows in the dunes.

Patience is required for something such as this, and after twenty minutes of peering at a murky strip of sand we’ve just about had enough. Suddenly though, there’s a squawk from the beach and 4 or 5 little fella’s are heading towards us.

This is going to be great; a genuine piece of animal magic is coming our way and we have ringside seats. A Japanese tourist to our left has other ideas however, he whips out his camera and blinds the lot of them with flash photography. Of course, this also succeeds in scaring the poor things to bits and puts paid to any of us seeing anything of note at close range.

Moron.

As we walk dejectedly back to the van cursing Tokyo Joe and his Nuking Nikon, justice is dished out sublimely. He’s still annoying everyone at the lookout, so misses the penguin that passes right in front of us. We stop in our tracks and gawp at the curious little creature, who instead of scurrying off, simply sidles up to my foot for a good old sniff.

A strange end to an eventful day.

Day 11. Hobart, Tasmania.

Me, Steve and Wend are up at the crack to catch the early flight to Tasmania, and the Broons and the Nobles are bleary eyed as they wave us off. Tired at getting up so early? No, simply devastated at the prospect of not having us around any longer.

This is the leg of the trip where we aim to get back to nature and experience some weird wilderness stuff.

So we pick up our campervans, don our hiking clobber, unfold our map of Tasmania’s wildest extremities and head intrepidly straight to a fish and chip joint in Hobart.

Well, we didn’t want to get up to anything too death defying our first day.

It’s always handy to have some local knowledge when it comes to the great outdoors. So later on, we meet up with Scott and Katy; a couple who were regulars at our local pub back in N16, but moved back to Tasmania 12 months ago.

They ply us with Scott’s homebrew while we ask them a hundred questions about what we should be doing over the next 3 weeks. And by the end of the night we reckon we’ve just about nailed our itinerary.

Then their mate Rob turns up and we have to rethink the whole thing.

Rob works as a geologist in Tasmania, and seems to be on first name terms with every square inch. He scribbles down some of his favourite walks and marks a few campsites on our map that we wouldn’t have stood a chance of finding normally.

We ‘camp’ in Scott and Katy’s drive that night and – 500 miles from the hustle and bustle of Bondi – enjoy our best night’s kip since we came to Australia.

Day 10. Sydney

I don’t think we drank enough vodka yesterday, because incredibly, there isn’t a sniff of a hangover as we hit the beach for an early morning swim.

Later, we take the coastal path along to Clovelly for a post-wedding Barbie. This is a lovely walk, meandering past some of Sydney’s finest beaches and most expensive real estate. Thirsty work though, so we’re ready for some ice cold beers when we reach the bowling club at the other end.

Hoady tries to persuade us that bowls is indeed a cool sport and despite our early scepticism, we eventually come round to his way of thinking. It’s a right old laugh and more challenging than you’d imagine. The club sits on a cliff top above the town and provides those who aren’t playing with fine views across the ocean.

Towards the end of a tightly contested clash of the titans between me, Matt and James we’re distracted by screeches of excitement from the gang sitting outside the clubhouse; someone has spotted a Humpback whale out in the bay and sure enough, there he is, thrashing about in the surf and generally showing off.

Spectacular stuff. But it didn’t half put me off my game.

Day 9. Sydney

The Hoadys’ big day finally arrives and after yesterday’s rain we’re relieved to wake to clear blue skies and a gentle breeze.

The setting for the ceremony is just perfect; an idyllic little park by the harbour’s edge right across from the opera house. Naturally, Caz looks absolutely stunning as she makes her entrance on Sashi’s arm. She seems remarkably cool and collected, unlike the groom, who starts blubbing like a big girl as soon as he sets eyes on her.

It’s an eclectic gathering, with many of Caz’s extended family having travelled from the Ukraine, the rabble from London are there and a few token Aussies have been invited to make up the numbers.

First surprise of the day (and there were many along the way) was that instead of piling into taxis or a minibus to make our way to the reception, we were led to a jetty and whisked across the harbour in a couple of motor launches – all very exciting and James Bond.

If anyone’s ever been to a wedding involving a jewish Australian Russian and a bloke from Peterborough, they’ll have a good idea of how things progressed from that point. The vodka, the heartfelt speeches (cue more tears from Hoady), more vodka, carrying the bride and groom across the dance floor on their wedding thrones, a bit more vodka, the first dance (Paul Weller), the second dance (Love is in the air), the third dance (the complete soundtrack to Fiddler on the roof), more vodka. Then home.

A wonderful day for a smashing couple. It was a real honour to be there to share it with them.

Day 8. Sydney

We catch the ferry across the harbour to spend the day with Kate, Steve and their girls out in Manly – a smart neighbourhood on the north shore. Steve has promised to take us on a bushwalk, which conjures images of the outback, kangaroos and psychotic Crocodile Dundee types.

It turns out to be a gentle stroll along the shoreline to a little park where the girls can play on the swings and me & Wend can go paddling.

Very pleasant it was too.

Steve is a Sydneysider born and bred, and lives up to the stereotype by laying on a Barbie in the evening. Never in the history of human existence have so few people eaten so much meat in such a short period of time.

Day 7. Sydney

Jet lag ensures we’re wake at 5.30am and after an hour or so staring at the ceiling we decide our time would be better spent at the beach.

Bondi has certainly cleaned up its act since we were here 5 years ago. Back then, it was quite scruffy, the promenade and cafes were looking sorry for themselves and the beach itself wasn’t too clever either with litter and fag-ends everywhere.

Well, what a transformation.

They’ve banned eating, boozing and smoking anywhere on the waterfront. Smart eateries and bars are in evidence everywhere and – most importantly – the locals have developed a fresh pride in the beach. Even at this early hour there were hundreds of folk surfing, running along the water’s edge and bending themselves into unlikely yoga poses. Brilliant stuff!

We skip the yoga and surfing, but pile into the crashing waves and finish the session off with a jog from one end of the bay to the other.

Feeling suitably smug, we return to the house to tell the lazy fat slobs how wonderful we are.

In the evening we celebrate Selina’s 30th birthday. Caz and Hoady have booked a table for 20 at one of the aforementioned swanky restaurants and everyone gets suitably drunk.

This is fun. We like it here a lot.

Day 6. Sydney

It was a treat to be met at the airport by our old friend Kate who kindly braved the rush hour traffic to taxi us to our holiday house at Bondi beach. Kate and her Aussie boyfriend Steve moved to Sydney 4 years ago to set up home away from the London cold and drizzle. Breeding was also part of their gameplan, and the fruits of their labour were involved in our welcoming committee – the lovely (if somewhat excitable) Maggie, aged 3 and the impossibly cute Hannah, who’s yet to take her first steps.

Seven of us have rented a big old house in one of the leafy residential streets just behind Bondi and when we arrive, the advance party of Matty, Selina and Steve are already sitting in the garden necking their first drinks of the day (bear in mind it’s just gone 10am local time – bloody animals that they are). In their defence, Hoady the groom is dishing out the booze. Always the supreme party organisers, Caz and Hoady have had 300 bottles of beer specially brewed for the wedding celebrations.

The beer tastes surprisingly ok. Although the hideous photo of Hoady on the label is enough to make most of us queasy.

In the afternoon we make our way 3 or 4 beaches along the coast to Coogee for the joint stag/hen bash. At this point, we realise that Sydney isn’t so much a City, as a string of holiday resorts with a big bridge and funny shaped opera house plonked in the middle. Anyway, Coogee is one of the prettiest of these resorts and a very agreeable place to meet up with some of Caz and Hoady’s family and friends for a pre-wedding hootenanny. I had a good old chat with Caz’s granddad, Leonard, who aged 78, is still practising medicine and lecturing at the University at Odessa.

A really interesting bloke, he kept apologising for his poor English. I reassured him that his command of the language was vastly superior to the gaggle of Geordies loitering by the cool box.

Day 5. Somewhere over the South Pacific ocean.

There is no Day 5 really. We leave SF at 7 on Tuesday evening and land in Sydney on Thursday morning. An uneventful flight apart from an announcement from the pilot 3 hours in:

“Thought you folks might like to know that Barack Obema has just been elected the new President of the United States of America”

Cue lots of high fives, back slapping and that whooping thing Americans do.

Day 4. San Francisco. Election frenzy.

Our last day in the Shaky City and we finally see some sunshine. It also happens to be Election Day, and there’s a palpable air of excitement and expectation in the air. California has traditionally been a Republican state but San Francisco has always bucked the trend and judging by the number of Obama posters, flags, badges and bumper stickers on show it looks like being a safe seat for the good guys.

Fingers crossed.

Of course, electing a new world leader is one thing, but as far as we were concerned, buying a pair of trousers for the forthcoming wedding was far more important. As we finish breakfast, Wend convinces me - not unreasonably - that turning up at Caz and Hoady’s big day in flip flops and camouflaged army shorts wouldn’t be one of my cooler moves, so we catch the bus downtown and hit the shops.

Normally I hate shopping, the whole exercise just seems so tedious and frivolous. Tends to eat into the budget too. But I will admit, it was fairly swift and painless today; we only visited one shop and were in and out in 15 minutes.

Modesty forbids me to brag about the cut and elegance of the new outfit. My personal shopper however, reckons I’ll be turning more heads than the bride.

Sorry Caz.

Day 3. San Francisco

Sadly it’s time for Erin and Andy to head back to San Diego today. It’s been brief but absolutely brilliant to spend some time with them and they’ve helped get the trip off to a great start. Despite a complete lack of any Californian sunshine we managed to tick quite a few of the tourist ‘must-do’s’ including a quick circuit of the nearby Botanical Gardens this morning.

As a special departing treat – and I wouldn’t do this with just anyone – I decide it would be an excellent idea for the four of us to sit through the entire live broadcast of Newcastle vs Aston Villa.

What a game!

2-0 to the magnificent Magpies and we have two new recruits to the Toon Army. Afterwards, I try to explain that it isn’t normally like this, and in fact, Newcastle haven’t won any significant silverware for over 40 years. But the yanks don’t care; they’re hooked, and will now begin their life sentence of football-supporting misery.

Also in the Sports Bar, we meet Dave, the sole member of the San Francisco Newcastle supporters club. He’d bunked off work to watch the game (noon kick off here) but leaves a very happy man, hugging all and sundry before departing. I liked Dave, I think we bonded.

Day 2. San Francisco

Our home in San Francisco for the next 3 nights is a wonderful establishment called The Red Victorian B&B. Not so much a guesthouse as a shrine to the City’s golden age of hippydom in the ‘60’s. The proprietor, Sami Sunchild (no, really, that’s her name) still thinks it’s ok to wear Tye Dye smocks, dab patchouli oil behind her ear and wear flowers in her hair. But then she is 82 years old, so we’ll forgive her.

It’s a lovely place to stay. Bags of character and about a quarter the price of one the swankier downtown hotels.

Considering we didn’t drag ourselves out of our jet-lagged coma until lunchtime, we actually managed to cram quite a bit in today.

We hired some bikes to cycle across the Golden Gate bridge. Or at least I think that’s what we did. The bridge was wrapped in thick mist, and at no point did we manage to see the tops of the two supporting towers. A good laugh though, especially watching Erin trying to contend with a couple of San Francisco’s steeper hills. She couldn’t get her head around the concept of using a low gear to make life easier. It’s funny, because normally she’s quite a bright girl.

Later, we went for drinks at the lounge at the top of the Mark Hotel (cheers for the recommendation Steve). A fabulous place decked out in stylish Art Deco that ‘s been serving cocktails to the hip and happening crowd since the 1930’s.

God knows how they let us four in.

Day 1. London - San Francisco

We first came across Erin Kate Calver 7 years ago when trekking through a rainforest in deepest Central America. She was with the lovely Stef back then, and the four of us became big buddies. We went out to stay with them in San Diego, Erin came to London to have a holiday with us, we shared a passion for music, travel and booze and it seemed nothing could spoil our friendship,

Then she dropped a bombshell.

She announced that she’d voted for George W Bush in the last election. The room went quiet, the flowers on the mantelpiece tilted to one side and our imaginary cat was sick on the aspidistra. Oh well, we thought, she’s young and obviously insane, but she’ll come to her senses eventually,

Fast forward 4 years and Erin and her boyfriend Andy have made the journey up the coast to meet us in San Francisco. The weakness for Vodka is still there as are the cute Californian blonde locks but there’s a fresh sense of calm and maturity about her. Yes, as predicted, she’s jumped the fence and become Obama’s number 1 fan,

Thank buggery for that, Now we could get on with the job in hand and start having some serious fun, Despite the brutally knackering journey from London, and the fact we hadn’t slept for almost 24 hours, we had a half a decade of catching up to do, so sat up until God knows when talking nonsense and ordering increasingly daft drinks.

Andy, by the way, has one of the cushiest jobs on the planet. He creates sound effects for Computer games. What a doss.