Bondi to Bronte

We crossed deep seas and traversed mighty rivers, were washed up like brave Ulysses and found ourselves on

Sydney’s oh so sacred soil, safe in the heaving bosom of our fellow arbourbridginis we allowed ourselves a little interpretative dance of Joy.  Seen below our humble representation of the history of the development of  Australian  industry, from the invention of the lawn mower and the shower cap to pearl diving in Broome.

What with no sophisticated Calcuttans around to brighten our days and continually astonish us we realised that we have to make our own fun.

And amuse ourselves as best we can.  That’s me on the left.

But old habits die hard so once more, patient reader, we sit at the telegraphic optometer and send out a weak signal to you.

While awaiting your response we took the famous stroll from Bondi to Bronte.

Anticipating the weekend crowds we started early and only encountered seventy or so fellow walkers.

We marvelled at the bluest of skies, we ran bare-footed through the silky sand, we rocked up to the transcendent Waverley necropolis and whilst we adore the Park Street one in Kolkata we DID ask ourselves could it really compare to our own one nestled on the cliffs of Bronte with ocean views, Masonic hands, and angels everywhere?

We happily lined up for Iggy’s crusty loaves of delight (For all the marvels of the subcontinent and SEAsia when will they learn to make a decent loaf?)