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.

Kakadu

No trip to the top end of Australia would be complete without visiting the Aboriginal lands of Kakadu National Park.

Located 250km to the east of Darwin, Kakadu was where the very first Aboriginal people settled - tens of thousands of years ago. It is therefore home to some of the oldest culture, art, traditions, plants and animals on the entire planet. It is a World Heritage Area bigger than Wales, boasting stunning scenery and a fascinating history.

I decided to book myself on a 'grown up' tour for this experience. I wanted to go on a trip that would do justice to the place I was visiting, not a budget backpacker tour where the guide is more interested in asking how pissed everybody got the night before.

It took us a good few hours to get into the park after a 6.30am departure from Darwin. Our first port of call was Ubirr, where there is amazing Aboriginal art work dating back God only knows how long.

I can't really summarise in a post an accurate synopsis of Aboriginal culture. But what I did get a great sense for on this trip was the amazing attachment they have traditionally had to the land they live in, and all the nature and wildlife of that area. For example, an ancient Aboriginal would not necessarily see any difference between his neighbour and, say, a Kangaroo. His best friend might be a tree. He would have regarded everything to have been alive, and as such would feel the same towards it all.

Aborigines were perhaps the first human race to have a system of law and order. However, nothing was ever written down. Rules and traditions were passed on through art work or stories told to children. Respect for the law was regarded as absolutely essential - even if you did not know the rules existed.

We were told the tale of a young woman from a neighbouring tribe who started living in the mainly male settlement of Ubirr thousands of years ago. One day the men all went out hunting and, keen to impress, the girl decided to cook them up some food for when they returned. She went down to the river, caught a couple of Barramundi, and then dutifully cooked them up. It is not clear whether she cracked open a bottle of Blue Nun and put on a Phil Collins CD.

While cooking the Barramundi, the girl got a bit peckish and ate some of the fish herself. When the men returned and saw all of this, they were incandescent with rage. Why? Aborigines have traditionally been given totems at birth to confirm their connection to the land they live in. In other words, their parents nominate an animal to which they are spirtually attached. In Ubirr just before this girl arrived, a very popular and admired old man died and his totem was the Barramundi. As a result, the local tribe introduced a law that nobody could eat Barramundi for generations.

When all of this was pointed out to the girl, she understandably protested her ignorance of the rule. This was no defence under Aboriginal law. If you break a rule, you have to face the consequences. So the men beat the living shit out of her. For several days. Eventually the dispute resulted in battles between other tribes and several deaths. The moral of the story? Always make sure you understand and respect the laws governing somebody else's land. It became a story told through generations for thousands of years - illustrated by art work at Ubirr.

See, you learn something new every day! I am not aware of any modern day Aborigines beating up birds for doing the dinner. It is funny - actually, let me rephrase that - it is ironic that Aussie tour guides can describe with such warmth the tales of their country's indigenous past, but yet their fellow countrymen and women seem so incapable of living beside Aboriginal people today. You may have heard that the Australian Prime Minister has recently banned alcohol in Aboriginal settlements in a so-called crackdown on child sex abuse. I will return to this subject later in the week when I visit some of the communities that the army and police have been sent into.

Anyway, anyway. Enough politics for now. After lunch we went on a boat trip, which took in some beautiful natural habitat. There were lots of crocodiles (obviously) and also a considerable amount of rare bird life. Interesting as it is to see the crocs, when a tour guide rides a boat to within inches of one that is four metres long, you don't have to be an expert on these creatures to realise that he wouldn't be doing this if it was going to attack anyone. I wouldn't recommend swimming next to the buggers though.

On the long drive back to Darwin we stopped off at a pub. It was one of those infamous ramshackle outback bars that prided itself on being the only place you could get a beer for about 200km. Around the bar was an equally stereotypical huddle of Aussie 'blokes', all drinking heavily and putting the world to rights. They completely ignored all the tourists - not that I felt like having a conversation with them. I couldn't work out if the rest of the pub was deliberately shit for effect or just genuinely run down. The pool table was falling over and the juke box was out of order. You could still flick through the Cd's - the most recent one that would have been available for play was the Smash Hits Best of Compilation 1991. I'm not joking.

I would have liked a second day in Kakadu, but I had a lot of things to arrange for the remainder of my trip before I leave for Alice Springs on Saturday. I'll be sad to leave Darwin too. It has been hot every day and I've enjoyed myself - despite all the entertainment being centred around a couple of streets at the far end of one of the most desolate countries on earth.

shatpackers

It's not very often that when I ask for something, and somebody refuses my request, that I feel a sense of relief and happiness.

But that is precisely how I felt when I asked to extend my stay at Chilli's Backpackers in Darwin. My room had a bed in it and nothing else but a sink - which was handy, admittedly, for having a piss in the middle of the night. It was probably the most soulless place I have ever slept in my entire life, but it was very cheap. You can't argue with the equivalent of 20 quid a night for your own room, I told myself - hence my request to stay.

This is peak season in Darwin, though, and the budget accommodation is in high demand. All that I could be offered was a bunk bed in an 18-bed dorm, which frankly was a prospect I found about as appealing as buggering a crocodile. I don't mind sharing with friends, nor do I mind that much sharing four bed dorms. But I draw the line at sleeping with 18 backpackers, snoring and farting their way through the night.

The lack of any private hostel rooms available in Darwin 'forced' me one more rung up the ladder and into a budget hotel. When I checked into my room, at a rough cost of 45 pounds a night, I was confronted with facilities that were probably a tier below what you would expect to find in an average Travelodge. I felt like I'd walked into the imperial suite of the Ritz.

Backpacker facilities are a bit like being back at university. On the one hand, everything is cheap - particularly the beer - most people are friendly and there is a genuinely happy atmosphere. On the other hand, they are noisy, a lot of people are twats and there is always the fear when using the shower in the morning that somebody has puked up in it the night before.

In other words, it is nice to be staying in a hotel rather than a hostel for a few days.

Darwin was lovely and hot again today. The above picture is of the harbour, where you will notice there is practically no human activity at all. This is because of box jellyfish - even though it is technically 'off season' for their presence in Darwin's waters, still nobody takes the chance and swims. Can't say I blame them in all honesty.

Darwinism

It was a gruelling trek between Cairns and Darwin on Monday.

I checked out of my hostel at 10am, but had to wait around Cairns - yes, it rained - until 4.30pm for my flight down to Brisbane. The direct flights to Darwin were out of my price range, so I had to go thousands of miles south to then fly north again. It was the equivalent of flying to Russia via North Africa.

The journey to Brisbane was made more pleasurable by the Virgin Blue in-flight entertainment. They provided access to 30 satellite tv channels, so I could flick between live sports, the news or whatever else took my fancy from the air. A far better entertainment system than a load of average movies.

I had to hang around Brisbane Airport for three hours before my connecting flight, which wasn't one of life's more pleasurable experiences. The journey time to Darwin is four hours, so I was hoping and expecting Virgin Blue would provide the same in-flight entertainment I had enjoyed on the two hour flight down from Cairns. Wrong. There was nothing. I was also sat on a row with a mother and screaming baby, and a drunken Canadian who was threatened with arrest in mid air for his rowdy behaviour.

I finally arrived at my hostel in Darwin at around 2am, which quite frankly makes the average prison look like a Holiday Inn. For some reason the time zone here is half an hour behind most of Australia. Why 30 minutes? I don't get it.

Anyway, Darwin. It's named after Charles. This place is unlike most others in Australia in that it has been built and re-built three times already. The Japanese bombed the living shit out of the place in World War II when it was a strategic port for the Allies to launch attacks into Asia. More than 240 people died in just one attack. If there ever had been an invasion of Australia, it would have been through Darwin. The people of this city can take comfort from the knowledge that should this ever have happened, the Australian Government had a contingency plan in place. This was to bugger off back to the south east of the country and protect cities like Sydney and Melbourne.

Believe it or not, the fear of Asian troops landing in Darwin is still one that persists today. Indonesia is but a small boat ride away - and possesses one of the largest armies in the world. The fear of attack has characterised the Australian way of thinking since the 18th century. It explains this country's staunch loyalty to Britain in two world wars, and subsequently its slavish following of America into both Vietnam and Iraq. At least we only went into one! Actually, to be fair to the Aussies, if playing a bit part role in Iraq is the price they have to pay for protection, it's not a bad deal. I mean, what exactly is the extent of their involvement in the war? A few bush rangers and a couple of kangaroos by the looks of it.

Anyway, if hundreds of devastating bombing raids during the war wasn't punishment enough for Darwin, it then suffered enormous destruction during a cyclone on Christmas Eve in 1974. This wiped out the vast majority of buildings in the city, including the former town hall pictured at the top of this post.

The Darwin of today is therefore relatively modern. I have heard some Aussies dub it a shit hole. I actually quite like it. Darwin is clean, friendly, unassuming and growing. It is, in many respects, a paradox - the capital of a territory about the size of France, and yet with a population of just 70,000. Today the temperature soared past 30 degrees and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. That's enough to endear it to me.

Snork the Reef(er)

On Saturday morning it finally happened. Nobody had predicted it, the pessimist in all of us had resigned ourselves to perpetual disappointment. It was like Norwich City winning promotion again. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you guessed it - the sun was shining.

The weather forecast had predicted rain for today, so to see almost clear blue skies and the temperature pushing 30 degrees was, well frankly, why I came here in the first bloody place.

Before venturing out to enjoy the weather, I went online to find myself a room for my arrival in Darwin on Sunday night. A quick perusal of various web sites very quickly indicated a slight problem with this - i.e. there were not any rooms available in Darwin on Sunday night, unless I felt like staying in a dorm at a crack den. A quick ring around of affordable places confirmed this.

Now normally I would have been kicking the nearest small animal and reaching for the bottle when confronted with such news, but on this occasion I was not. Fortunately my flight with Virgin Blue was fully flexible - I simply went online and switched it to Monday, and then booked a room. God bless Richard Branson.

I spent the rest of Saturday afternoon enjoying the glorious weather. Cairns was like a different place - kids splashed around in the water, adults drank copious amounts of cold beer - and I did both.

Today (Sunday) I took advantage of my extra day here to do something the weather had hitherto prevented me from - a trip to the Great Barrier Reef. I caught the 1pm ferry to Green Island (just off Cairns) where I had the opportunity to either go snorkeling or see the Reef from a glass bottom boat. I had promised friends and family that I would overcome my fear of sealife and not pass up the opportunity to swim in one of the most beautiful parts of the world. Trouble is, actions always speak louder than words. Tony Blair said he wouldn't go into Iraq without a UN mandate, and look what happened there. I opted for the glass bottom boat.

The sun had retreated and it was now very windy and choppy on the sea, which nearly caused me to puke all over a Japanese tourist on the boat. Aside from that, it was great looking at the Reef from the comfort of the boat - and I got to take pictures and see bigger fish than I would have done through snorkeling. So, there you have it. I'm a sensible pragmatist, and not a coward. Oh no.

constant raining

On Friday morning I walked to the Cape Tribulation lookout, which is one of the most famous and glorious views on offer in Australia. You will have seen it in countless brochures and TV ads - perfect light blue sea and white sandy beaches. Paradise picture postcard stuff.

When I got there it was pissing down with rain, the sea looked like the English Channel off Portsmouth and a middle aged Brummie couple were having a furious row about who's fault it was they had left the waterproofs in the hotel.

The sense of disappointment on the faces of all tourists there was palpable. After all, this wasn't a Sunday afternoon drive along the Norfolk coast spoilt by a spot of drizzle. This was one of the most remote locations in the world, and who only knows if I will ever get the chance to see it again in its splendour.

Generally speaking, however, I really enjoyed my time in the Daintree rainforest. It is a relatively new tourist attraction given that it was largely inaccessible until the Queensland government built a road through it in 1982. Until then it was home to indigenous tribes and dope smoking hippies. The latter group were forcibly evicted by the authorities after the road was completed, which I personally think was a shame. Goa and other parts of Asia are perfect examples of how alternative cultures enrich the enjoyment of visiting remote communities. Quite frankly, Cape Tribulation could do with a few less motels and a bit more marijuana.

The lovely 'Little Brett' picked us up at 1.30pm to take us back to Cairns. Our trip back included seeing the bit of the ocean where Steve Irwin was killed by a stingray, which struck me as a slightly bizarre part of a tourist tour, and a swim in the Mossman Gorge - a fresh water river and waterfall. We also stopped off in the rather exclusive resort of Port Douglas, which can claim Bill Clinton as a regular guest. I wonder what Bill would have made of what I saw in my brief time there, which included a mother and daughter drinking alcopops in the street and spitting at passing strangers. He'd probably have fucked them.

I got back to Cairns at around 6pm. It had been a good trip and a vast improvement on my first few miserable days here. I checked into a new hostel - this one much cleaner and with vastly superior facilities, although much louder.

My next destination is Darwin - Australia's most northern city and capital of the Northern Territory. With the weather not looking like it was going to change in Cairns very soon, I booked myself a flight bound for Darwin on Sunday.

In the evening I was bereft of things to do, so I decided to re-visit Nu Trix - the club I containing four people that I was unceremoniously chucked out of last weekend for being "all over the place". I figured - correctly - that they would either not remember me or would be so desperate for custom I would get in anyway. By the time I left the club at 2.30am, I counted 24 paying customers inside. I make that an increase of 83 per cent on my last visit. The management must be delighted...