I'm not sure what to say really or whether I actually want to write anything at all. I find that travel journals, for the most part, are as boring as journals written at home. The daily or weekly events of anyone are of little interest unless one is absorbed in the daily life of the place visited and observation is of limited value when one understands little of the history and the culture and the politics of the country one is in.

One consequence of this is a tendancy, perhaps, to see everything as the same, as globalisation, or what used to be called American cultural imperialism, makes the surface of much of the world seem so similar. It is easy to notice the similarities and gloss over the differences; on the other hand, it is also easy to imagine differences that are not, in fact, so great and then to idealise or denigrate them. With no further knowledge than that given by one's eyes and ears how are we to make sense of sameness and difference and tell them apart? A better grasp of Australian history would no doubt highlight and shade and colour a country that in many ways seems the same as my own; unfortunately Robert Hughes' A Fatal Shore has been packed up back to the UK but maybe next time I'll come with some stories to add some depth to my vision.

Australia is a strange place, very familar, too familiar with its pies and fish and chips, and then suddenly really strange in a grizelled and very long beard kind of way. Outside the city men appear with canyons eroding their brown leathery skin, long wiry hair and longer wirier beards and if they don't have sticks to hold up their wiry legs (because they are not actually that old or that wiry) then they will one day. Or maybe not. They are probably as strong as Samson, all their force held in their hair.

Despite the lushness and the gorgeous greens and blues of the landscape its towns seem dry and barren with a sterility that reminds me of those small dusty American towns where the only jobs are at the gas station and the bar and they were taken some thirty years ago. This bit I hate....the apparent pointlessness of so many towns, they make me cringe in the same way as when I think of living in those grey towns of Northern France, or in the city of Birmingham. But the rest isn't bad at all.

I'm certainly not in love with it, like I am with France and New York and San Fransisco and even Tokyo; there has been no tug in my stomach or quick beating of my heart and there is no feeling of nostalgia for a life I could have had -Australia is not a country and Sydney is not a city to make me dream - but I like it more than I imagined. I would consider living here to escape the relentless dreadfulness of the English weather and its seemingly ever extending winters, and the destruction of one's soul required to live a reasonable adult life in the otherwise great city of London.

The scenery is breathtaking, the sky is huge and the roads are long and empty. It is green and wet; there is water everywhere, not only the crashing sea but rivers, waterfalls and lagoons. And I have met some very cute koalas.