I flew back to Sydney on Thursday for the last time. My flight to San Francisco was the following day, and I had to collect the remainder of my belongings.

Right from the very moment I booked this entire adventure, I had Thursday 5 July down as one of the most difficult days - my last full one in Australia. It had hovered on the horizon for months. I thought it would be a near tearful conclusion.

To be honest, it actually passed like any other day. I decided against nostalgic visits to favourite parts of the city, or indeed one last big party in my bars of choice.

I did allow myself one last trip down to the park at the bottom of my street to take in the glorious view of the city and its harbour. As I was doing so, a little old lady tugged me on the shoulder. It was chilly by Aussie standards - about 15 degrees - and I was only wearing a thin jumper. She was concerned that I would be cold. 'It's ok,' I said. 'I'm English'. She nodded, smiled and walked off with her dog.

After getting together the remainder of my belongings, I made a final trip to the fantastic local Thai takeaway and the not to fantastic cos the staff are are aresholes bottle shop. Then I packed up my stuff and drank wine with my former flat mate. And that was that.

I will not know how I will truly feel about leaving Sydney for some time. All I know is that as I left, I felt very lucky to have lived in a part of the city that was bustling with things to do, forward thinking and tolerant. I have come to discover that this small part of Sydney is completely unlike the vast majority of Australia - which frankly is the complete opposite.

Like I said, in a few months I may feel totally different upon longer reflection. But on my last day, I questioned whether I would be happy to live permanently in a country with such backward social attitudes, culture, media and politics.

It would probably have all appeared different in 30 degree heat.

Uluru

We were awoken at 5.30am on Wednesday morning to go and see the sun rise over Urulu. It was freezing.

Before I go any further, I would just like to say that I will now only refer to this famous phenomenon as Uluru, and not Ayers Rock. Uluru is the name it was given thousands of years ago by indigenous local tribes. Ayers Rock is the name it was given by the first European to see it in the 19th Century - named after the then governor of South Australia. I'm sorry, but I think Uluru is rather more appropriate than the name of some non-descript politician nobody would otherwise have ever heard of. So there you have it. Uluru it is.

Our camp was around 10km from Uluru, so our guides drove us to the base of the rock. As we approached it, a thick mist surrounded the lower half. It looked magical. We then commenced the 9km walk around the rock - without our tour guides, who simply said they would wait for us at the bus. Frankly, this came as something of a relief. It was far too early in the morning to take in anything other than the surroundings and, to be honest, they were both a pair of twats. I have met many, many marvellous people in this country. But you cannot escape the fact there are a significant number of Australians who are brash, arrogant, loud and bigoted. The sort of people you see puking up outside a Walkabout in London. These guys were those guys. With dollops on.

As the sun rose and the sky grew brighter, you could see the colours of the rock change. It was spellbinding. My words cannot do justice to the experience - the cool air, the colours, the sheer size of the god damn thing. It was simply incredible.

Opinion is divided about how far Uluru goes into the ground, but it could be as much as 9km. What we do know is that it is millions of years old and was formed as a result of underground rock pressing against itself and rising upwards over an inconceivably long period of time. That's about as scientific as I can be, I'm afraid.

I was accompanied for the majority of the three-hour walk around the rock's base by the Finnish student in our group, a very friendly guy called Jera. He never stopped talking, which occasionally became annoying, but generally he was lively and interesting company. At some points he would randomly start whistling or singing Abba songs (you had to be there). I had already suspected he might be a friend of dorothy, and this was providing further evidence. So I skirted around that issue by asking why, as a Finn, he liked a Swedish band when there was a lot of rivalry between the two countries. He replied that he didn't mind their nationality, and stressed he liked nothing more before a night out than having 'the girls' round for a good Abba singalong and some wine.

I don't think I have ever heard a statement from somebody that so categorically confirmed their sexuality. It started to make sense now why he kept letting his leg rest on mine during the bus journey. The naughty side of me then started to consider what to do next. Let's face it - a blow job by the side of Uluru would make a story I could tell down the boozer for decades. Then I realised I wasn't that sexually attracted to him and how deeply embarrassing it would be to get caught. It would also be rather disrespectful to the indigenous people.

Talking of this land's ancient inhabitants, we encountered several examples of Aboriginal art on the rock. An explanation of the art's meaning was also provided, during which I was startled to discover that the local Aboriginal translation of the colour yellow is 'wanka wanka'. I will never be able to sing 'Come on you yellows' at a Norwich City match with a straight face ever again.

We completed the walk close to where streams of tourists seek to climb the rock. Why people, of all ages, do this is completely beyond me. It isn't illegal, but it is advised against - and with good reason. In the last 50 years, 38 people have died climbing Uluru. Countless more have been seriously injured. To put that statistic in perspective, Australia's famously deadly spiders have not killed anybody for more than 25 years. For all the talk of this country's snakes, sharks, crocodiles, jellyfish and so on, the fact remains that climbing Uluru is the biggest threat to tourists. None of these people would swim in a croc infested river, or put their hand in a nest full of red back spiders, so why the fuck do they climb this rock?

I can only assume it is done for that story down the boozer effect, to say you've actually managed to do it. It's an ordinary man's 'I've climbed Mount Everest'.

If people want to put their safety at risk to climb to the summit of a rock where the only thing they will be able to see is miles of desolate wasteland, fine. There is, however, another reason why I certainly would never scale Uluru.

This rock is in Aboriginal land and is one of their most sacred symbols. It is without fear of exaggeration the spiritual equivalent of what the Vatican is to Roman Catholics. As such, the Aboriginal people ask that nobody climbs all over it. They can't stop anyone from doing it because the Australian Government protects the 'right' of people to climb it. So all Aboriginals can do is respectfully ask that you don't.

I personally think that one of the most basic, fundamental rules anybody should follow when visiting somewhere is to pay due respect to local values and custom. Nobody could possibly climb Uluru without realising how offensive is to Aborigines - there are signs pointing it out right at the bottom of the climb - and yet thousands still do it.

Why does this happen? I can only assume it is because those who climb think the reasons for Aboriginal objection to be a bit daft. It is a rather eccentric sounding, but equally true, fact that the local Aboriginal people get genuinely upset if anybody is hurt while climbing Uluru. Members of the community go into mourning. I'm honestly not making any of this up. I don't know about you, but I consider this reason enough not to climb. Ok, by our values it sounds daft, but that misses the point. It's about respect. I wonder what the British tourists ignoring all of this would think if Aborigines started coming over to London and climbing up the altar of St Paul's Cathedral. And then photographed each other at the top before taking a piss ahead of the long descent down. I rest my case.

The tour bus took everyone else back to Alice Springs, but thankfully I was spared a return there. I had booked myself into the local 'resort' for the night as my flight back to Sydney in the morning was from the nearby airport.

After an afternoon sauntering around the resort's absurdly expensive facilities, I went back to Uluru on a separate tour to see the sunset. We were given free champagne and it was all rather splendid. I then adjourned to my hotel bar, where I spent the evening losing at pool to a posh student and arguing with a Dutch guy who didn't smoke dope, whom I branded a disgrace to his nation's heritage.

It had been a fantastic, albeit long, day.

Kings Canyon

Although it is winter down under, central Australia still gets very warm during the day. The nights are a different story, when the temperature drops so low that this area goes from being the hottest place in the country to the coldest in just a few hours.

I think you can imagine what it was like waiting around at 5.15am in Alice Springs for my tour bus on Tuesday morning. And how thoroughly pissed off I was when it arrived 45 minutes late.

It was such a pleasure to leave Alice Springs, however, that any anger I felt soon subsided when the bus warmed up a bit. I did wonder to myself what the early explorers who risked their lives to navigate the centre of this country would think if they knew that today the most appealing attribute of the area's principal town was a Blockbuster video store. I don't know about you, but I'd wonder whether it had been worth all the bother.

Anyway, I was all aboard this bus for a two-day tour taking in the Red Centre of Australia, which would include a trip to the King's Canyon before ending up at Uluru.

The drive to Kings Canyon took four long hours, during which I felt so tired my eyes were almost weeping. It was, however, worth every single minute of it.

Kings Canyon was without doubt one of the most stunning 'things' I have ever come across in my life. Although I nearly suffered a heart attack climbing the side of it (note to self - rejoin gym when back in London), the three hour walk around it in glorious sunshine was a fantastically relaxing way to spend the afternoon. It isn't somewhere that is particularly rich in historical detail, but in a way that came as something of a relief. Stopping every two minutes on a tour for a lecture on what happened here according to myth 45 trillion years ago can, after a while, become a bit tiring. This walk was nice for how uninterrupted it was. I did discover, however, that two of the most festive symbols - holly and mistletoe - are actually thriving in the central Australian desert. Did you know that? Well, you do now.

After the walk we began another long drive to our camp at Uluru. By the time we arrived at around 8pm, we had covered some 800km over the course of the day. To put that in context, it was the equivalent of driving from London to Madrid.

I guess I should explain who I mean by 'we'. There were around 25 people on this trip, none of whom I knew prior to boarding the bus. I am always a bit wary of booking more than a two day tour through fear of finding myself in the company of unspeakable shits and having no means of escape. The need for everyone to get along was illustrated when we got to our camp site. We were all given tasks associated with getting the camp ready and preparing dinner, which we would then all eat together around a fire.

Bad blood would definitely spoil this kind of situation. Fortunately, there wasn't any at our camp - but it was certainly not an ideal group of people. There were a few couples who made absolutely no effort whatsoever to be even vaguely sociable with anyone else, which on communal tours like this really makes we wonder why they fucking bothered coming at all. Then there was a very odd family of two parents and three teenage kids - aged probably 15-18 - who didn't even speak to each other, let alone anyone else.

Fortunately there was a fantastically friendly family who were Indian, grew up in Leicester and had now emigrated to Australia. Not only did their life stories make such interesting conversation, but they never tired of asking other people about their experiences and generally being nice. Then there were the solo travellers who didn't have a partner to be anti-social with - myself, a Finnish student, a Korean artist, a German student and an American lobbyist. I generally got on really well with all the above, apart from a few interesting encounters with the German girl.

My 'task' at the camp site was to assist one of the guides who was cooking the barbecue. What this actually entailed was just chatting to him and drinking copious amounts of beer while he did all the work. As far as jobs go, it's fair to say I've had worse.

At one point the guide had to go and run an errand, leaving the culinary genius that is my good self in charge of the food. All sorts of things ran through my head. Would I end up burning everything or food poisoning the family that didn't speak? While I was throwing various things on the barbecue hoping that I knew what I was doing, the German girl came over. She then started to behave in a particularly German way, questioning everything I did with a series of stern enquiries. 'Should you be cooking the spring rolls already'? 'Have you wiped the oil you used for cooking the sausages away from the vegetarian food'? 'What is that you are sprinkling on the potatoes'? And so it went on. I answered all of her questions with one word and concentrated on the food, which I hoped she would correctly interpret as an invitation to fuck off. Eventually the guide returned and I was relieved of my cooking responsibilities.

I chatted away with my fellow travellers, exchanging tales and enjoying the absolutely incredible surroundings - the red sands of the central Australian desert under the glorious moonlit sky where you could see millions of stars. I felt unbelievably happy and lucky to be where I was.

At around midnight and with the temperature plummeting, I went to sleep in a swag. This is an Aussie outback invention and is basically a body bag with a mattress in that you climb inside with a sleeping bag. It was surprisingly comfortable and warm. After a long day, I fell asleep easily.

Who the fuck is Alice?

For some reason I had always pictured Alice Springs to be Australia's answer to Dubai.

I had in my mind an image of luxury hotels and sun blessed resorts serving the thousands of tourists who come here principally to travel south to Uluru (Ayers Rock).

In reality, Alice Springs is absolutely nothing like that. Nor, in all seriousness, is there any prospect of it being like that. Alice is one of the most isolated places in Australia - thousands of miles away from the nearest sizeable town. Consequently, it does not have any real industry other than tourism, and its complete isolation means it is not without social problems. The first thing which greeted me as I walked from the station to the town centre was a group of drunken Aboriginal men shouting undecipherable abuse whilst I walked along the pavement. It was 11am on a Sunday.

Tired from my overnight train journey, I checked into my very basic hotel and then went for a walk. It was obvious Alice Springs was not a place with much to offer. I thanked the Lord I was only booked to stay here for two nights.

Believe it or not, one of the first things I did upon arrival in Alice was to join the local Blockbuster. Allow me to explain. My room had a DVD player - an unexpected but welcome surprise - and given that Alice only has four pubs, three of which are pretty awful, I figured some form of alternative entertainment would be required.

On Sunday night, I walked around town and was nearly run over twice by boy racers. This was more akin to Dartford than Dubai. After a couple of pints in an English theme pub, which didn't seem at all English to me, I hired a couple of films and headed back to the hotel with a nice bottle of wine. Tucked up in bed, I then had a lovely relaxing evening that was infinitely superior to anything on offer outside.

When I awoke on Monday, I must admit I was tempted to spend the whole day in bed watching films. Fortunately, I didn't and instead hiked a couple of miles out of town to the Alice Springs Telegraph Station - the reason this place exists at all.

In the 19th century, the British were finding it increasingly difficult to govern their Australian colonies because it took at least two months to get a telegram to the country. It wasn't exactly helping Australia's development either. As a result, a remarkable telegraph line was laid between Britain and Australia - part beneath sea level, the rest constructed across Europe, Africa, Asia and then across Australia. Opened in 1872, the line allowed messages to be exchanged in hours rather than months.

Given its location slap bang in the middle of Australia, the telegraph station at Alice Springs became very important. Before its construction there was nothing here other than Aboriginal settlements - it was the first building in central Australia. Over time a town developed in the surrounding area.

The telegraph station is today extremely well maintained and a very informative source of information. Its remote location also made for some great photographs (see above).

Talking of remoteness and photography, tomorrow (Tuesday) I head for Ayers Rock. Only slight problem is that the tour bus picks me up at 5.15am. Gulp.

Ghan

I left Darwin for Alice Springs on Saturday slightly earlier than I would have hoped for one reason - I wanted to travel on the Ghan.

The Ghan is one of the longest train journeys in the world. Starting in Darwin, it makes its way through thousands of miles of the Australian outback, down to Alice Springs in the red centre of the country, before finally arriving in Adelaide some two days after it set off.

It struck me as an infinitely more interesting way of seeing Australia than a flight - even though the journey was 26 hours to Alice Springs. The cost was also relatively cheap. My ticket was $214, which is roughly 85 quid. For that I got a seat with loads of leg room, access to a lounge area and dining car. In short, a lot more than on the average journey back home.

The Ghan is a massive train, but only one carriage was set aside for budget conscious filth like me. For $700 you could have your own bed for the night, which in normal circumstances would be very nice, but not when it's $500 cheaper to make do without. Then for more than $1,000 you could purchase a 'Gold Kangaroo' ticket, which I'm assuming means you get all your food and booze thrown in on top of what everyone else gets. And possibly a complimentary hand job.

I did get given a free copy of Northern Territory News. Given that the territory has a population of just 200,000 spread over an area larger than any European country, it won't surprise you to discover there wasn't really a lot going on. All the 'news' seemed to be about people who had left the area and were now doing rather well for themselves elsewhere. The front page splash was about someone from Darwin who was now playing basketball in America. Occasionally, I'm sure, there is the odd horrific crime to liven things up a bit.

The long, long journey southwards has only been possible since 2004 - despite the idea of a line first being mooted in the 1850s and work commencing in 1877. The reason for this unseemly delay? Rail track in the far north - a part of Australia which goes through a wet season that sometimes sees a metre of rain falling in one day - was originally laid on a flood plain. So it all had to be done again.

First stop on the journey was Katherine, which is the largest town between Darwin and Alice Springs - population 10,000. It is described as the 'jewel of the territory' and has some stunning natural surroundings. We arrived at around 1pm on Saturday and were allowed four hours to explore the area, which struck me as a novel idea. I wonder if they will ever think of doing that in England. Just think - the next time you go to Edinburgh you could have the option of spending four hours in Doncaster.

As we arrived in Katherine around lunch time, I decided not go go on any of the tours available. The town sounded nice from its descriptions, so I had in mind a nice meal, a few drinks in the sun and just a general meander about.

I wasn't expecting Katherine to be a mini Melbourne in the outback. That said, I wasn't expecting it to be the unspeakable hell hole that it unquestionably is either. The main street was one long, wide depressing line-up of shops that appeared to be shut down or closed. A public address system played annoying country and western music for some inexplicable reason - giving a bizarre accompaniment to the despondent atmosphere.

The town's two pubs were without a single shadow of doubt the worst I have ever visited in my entire life. And I've been to a few. Both establishments were stinking, run-down shit holes. But that wasn't what made them so grim - it was the state of the clientele. I have never come across a more desperate group of people anywhere in the western world. It had barely passed 1pm and yet everyone was completely off their faces - young, old, black or white. And I don't mean off your face in a happy down the boozer on a Saturday way - I mean off your face in a incapable of holding a coherent conversation or stand up straight way. Those that weren't slumped up against the bar were gambling what little money they had on slot machines. Every single person looked as if they were suffering from the affects of addiction to alcohol or gambling - or both - or appeared to be mentally ill. I stayed for one drink.

As it was a nice day, I just sat in a park for the remainder of the afternoon. I did go to a bottle shop to get some secret supplies for the evening train journey, however. Outside were a group of Aboriginal children, who pleaded with me to buy them alcohol. I declined.

In a strange way I am grateful to the town of Katherine for providing me with stories to tell people for the rest of my life. On the other hand it was an experience that only my taxi journey through a slum in Mumbai last year could rival when it comes to shocking deprivation. Perhaps I should, after all, have booked myself on a tour that afternoon.

It goes without saying I was pleased when the train departed Katherine. I had a reasonable meal in the dining car, before retiring to the lounge to read books and drink Victoria Bitter. It was a pleasant enough night - about as good as a Saturday evening on a train could possibly be. By midnight I was tired and a bit tipsy, so I retired to my seat and surprised myself by falling asleep with ease.

Dawn in the middle of the outback is a spectacular sight. It also provided a welcome variance to the view outside, which had been virtually the same for all of the journey. Occasionally I saw a wallaby skipping through the bush, or indeed a bushfire, but otherwise it was as desolate as you would expect.

After a decent breakfast, the train pulled into Alice Springs at 11am. It had been a relaxing trip, but I was pleased not to be spending another day on it going to Adelaide.