Or rather, the Blue Hills. And a faintly greyish blue hazy hills at that, not steely-blue grey of cigarette smoke, but rather the brownish grey of a exhaled cigarette smoke hills. But that’s the only nitpick,- the view was magnificent, and the drive almost as good. All these small cute towns, each proclaiming, with their artful wooden signs, to be the most special part of the Blue Mountains. Like the charming and quaint town of Leura, that is so determinedly quaint that the few non-quaint store signs look out of place, with a faint harassed look about them. I mean they had a restaurant in the Post Office called the Post Office Restaurant. How much more quaint does it get. Or even the town of Katoomba, where the roads are strewn with antique bookstores. First editions of Biggles, for crying out loud.
I saw murals that were painted from old black and white photographs, to commemorate some one or the other. I’m sorry, my keen eye for details was a bit off that day. We had dinner in a completely vegetarian place, called the Niche Nosh, where the curries tasted like they were from India, and the tamale tasted like nothing from Mexico.
And the view. You tend to forget, living in Sydney, just how big the horizon is, and this was a good reminder. Half an hour earlier, we were battling the roads, trying to find a neat way out of the city and here, the land stretches end on end. Landscape dotted with the tops of armies of eucalyptus trees. And occasional streams of water breaking the landscape here and there, and water tumbling slowly across the gigantic cliffs.
We didn’t spend too much time there, but I think it will be fun going back.