Through a number of gaping loopholes in legislation, I’ve managed to get myself this ‘studentenreisproduct’. (Yes, the Dutch tend to join all their words together like the Germans.) It’s certainly going to make getting to uni a lot easier, but I’m a hell of a lot more excited about potential travel opportunities.

So, this year, I’m going to do it. I’m finally going to visit somewhere I’ve been obsessed with since I first heard of it; Baarle Hertog.

The complicated border around Baarle Hertog.

Baarle Hertog actually belongs to Belgium, but is not in Belgium proper at all. It’s a few kilometres north of the Belgian border, in the Netherlands, and is further complicated by bits of Dutch land within the Belgian enclave inside the Netherlands… yeah you get the picture. I have no idea about how I’m going to get here. It’s less than sixty kilometres from Dordrecht, yet doesn’t seem linked to anything. But don’t worry, I’m going to get here even if I have to cycle. It sounds awesome.

Another place I want to visit is the town of Giethoorn. I discovered this place after reading of it on slightlywarped.com; it is a town with literally no roads. The photos on the website make it look like a little piece of paradise. (Well, as much of a paradise as you can find north of Zwolle.)

Lastly (for the moment, anyway), high on my bucket list is the town of Alkmaar. I don’t want to see Alkmaar on any old day; no, I want to see it when it’s hosting its Traditional Cheese Market.

How cheesy.

I have become a bit of a cheese monster here in the Netherlands, despite living with a Dutchman who hates the stuff. Alkmaar also is home to the national cheese museum, which I can only hope has free samples.

I’m also keen to find time to explore Amsterdam’s quirky neighbourhoods, see the tulips in full bloom and eat Gouda cheese in Gouda itself.

Oh, and study, of course.

“Yeah, I know,” was the response. He’d already seen the news on NOS Teletext.

Staying up to date with news from home and abroad has always been tricky. You don’t get the newspaper delivered every morning, you don’t switch on the TV news at night while making dinner and conversations with others focus on where you’ve been and where you’re going, full stop.

A number of Very Big Things happened when I’ve been oblivious on the road; the Black Saturday bushfires, Osama bin Laden’s death and Gordon Brown becoming UK prime minister. Irregular consultation of gossip magazines meant that I thought Anna Nicole Smith was alive for much longer than was actually the case.

Backpackers often claim to belong to one of two separate camps. One group claims that one of the joys of travelling is completely switching off from the world. They don’t wear a watch, they rarely check their emails and they don’t have a mobile phone, let along a roaming SIM card.

Those on the other side of the spectrum don’t rely on such self-identification. Instead, you’ll be able to pick them out yourself; they’re a relatively new phenomenon. They’re in the common room in hostels each night seemingly attached to their laptops and other gadgets. They’ll be tweeting, Skyping and uploading photos at such a rapid rate that those at home hear from them more often than when they’re nearby. This is one of the negatives of the widespread rollout of easy access to free wifi at hostels; it’s made us backpackers less social.

Those in the first group are very noble. And they know this. They will audibly ‘tut-tut’ when they see a member of the other species. (They also tend to wear clothes made of hemp, have a cooking set hanging off their backpack and have a telling odour.)

Me? I’d love to be diplomatic and say I have a foot in both camps, and it’s true in part. Having an iPhone means that I’m connected to the world whenever I’m in a wifi hotspot, which tend to be more prevalent in Asia than in Europe or Australia. More importantly, I blog for God’s sake, and blogging takes a hell of a lot more time than it looks. Finally, to seal the deal, one of my start-up tabs on my web browser is The Age Online, so I knew about Andrew Krakouer’s leave pass before a Melburnian could pass on the unfortunate news.

Because, let’s face it, being away from home for prolonged periods of time can be hard. Sometimes even lonely, in fact. Just like emailing or texting someone is easier than actually picking up a phone, sometimes it’s just less daunting to bury your head in your computer than chat to those around you, who are also kicking back after a day of discovering a new city, a new culture and hey, now probably some new beers.

Thankfully, I started backpacking before free wifi at hostels became the norm. I started this blog at a time when I’d fork out a few euros for an hour at a dingy internet cafe with questionable clientele. Unsurprisingly, I’d spend as little time as possible at such establishments and instead maximise my time sightseeing and socialising.

It seems counterproductive or even old-fashioned to wish for a return of the internet cafe, an invention that disappeared almost as quickly as they appeared, but I do, in a nostalgic kind of way.

And although don’t have a cooking set hanging off the Beast and a recent count confirmed that I currently own twelve different haircare products, I also have two quick-dry towels and carry around empty drink bottles until I find a recycling point. Yep, feet in both camps.

So, what’s the deal?

Thankfully, I’ve been able to put my prejudices aside when it comes to Bruges. The charming city was one of Europe’s most powerful in the Middle Ages, caused by what the locals call ‘an act of God’. Basically, one night there was a massive storm and when everyone woke up, they realised that a sea channel had been created, linking Bruges with the North Sea.

For a few hundred years, Bruges enjoyed its status as the most powerful city on the North Sea, trading lace and other textiles with major trading centres such as Venice and Pisa. Unfortunately, one night God wasn’t so kind. His second act in yet another storm caused the channel to silt up and the city’s access to the sea was cut off.

Bruges sank into a funk, slowly being forgotten about by the rest of the world. This is exactly why Bruges is so pretty today; it’s caught in time as, thankfully, it was too much trouble to bulldoze it all and build something newer. Whilst nearby cities such as Ypres were being torn up in war, Bruges was just sitting quietly, waiting for hordes of tourists to discover it.

Brugge by night.

When do I go?

Bruges isn’t one of those places perpetually blessed with sunshine. It’s not far from London, so think about what the weather would be like there before you book. Tourists do come to Bruges all year round though, which means that nothing really shuts down in the colder months. Bring an umbrella year-round.

Where can I shack up?

There are a number of hostels in and around Bruges (called ‘Brugge’ in Flemish so let’s go with that to sound a bit cultured), with my top pick being the Bauhaus, which is part of the St Christopher’s chain. Rates are low, they’ve got a bar/restaurant attached and organise free walking tours, beer tastings and pub crawls. Snuffel Sleep-In’s another option (if you’re not afraid of outdoor showers) and Charlie Rockets is also in the city centre. Beds are super cheap, around half of what you’ll pay in the closest major backpacker stops of Paris and Amsterdam.

I’ve stayed in the first two which I can vouch for. Though rougher around the edges, If you’re travelling by yourself, Snuffel has a good common area and the Bauhaus’ organised tours are a good way to meet other people.

What photos do I need to take?

Brugge isn’t a city with a massive to-do list; rather it’s a place to explore at your own pace. The city centre is not as small as you’d first think, but everything is definitely within walking distance. The best city maps are by a non-profit group called Use-It; they contain all sorts of quirky advice and are available free in many spots including hostels. They’re recognisable by the picture of a smoking Jesus on the front.

On your first day it’s a good idea to take a canal cruise; they leave every ten minutes (even more often at the height of summer), take forty minutes and cost about €7. The seem incredibly touristy and you can get the feeling that you’re being treated like cattle, but it’s a bit of a must-do. The cruise route takes you down canals inaccessible to pedestrians, so you’ll really get to see a different side of the city. Some of the drivers ask for tips, especially if they’re translating everything into a few different languages. You don’t need to feel obliged as tipping really isn’t a common practice in Belgium.

Particularly if you’re a fan of the movie ‘In Bruges’, head up the Belfry for an amazing view of Brugge (€8). Brugge’s answer to the Leaning Tower of Pisa, it was built on a foundation of cowskins, hence the slight lean up the 366 steps. You can get up the tower for half the price if you look like you’re under 25. I wasn’t, but I said I was and got away with it.

The view from the Belfry (when it's not raining).

If you’re interested in churches (I can already see you skipping to the next paragraph) there’s a couple that Brugge likes to pump up; the Church of our Lady and the Basilica of the Holy Blood. The former contains the only Michaelangelo painting to leave Italy during his lifetime, and the latter contains a holy relic, a vial believed to be filled with Jesus’ blood. I haven’t been to either of these as they don’t look particularly amazing and the Church of our Lady seems to have strange opening hours and has been shut every time I’ve walked past. Both are free to enter.

The only working brewery in town is De Halve Maan, which is open every day. Tours run every hour on the hour, include a beer and cost €6,50.

If you’re up for museums of a different sort, the kitschy Fries Museum and Chocolate Museum may be right up your alley. Both cost €7. Reviews are mixed, so you’ve been warned!

Is there anything else around worth seeing?

On your second day, you might want to see the surrounding Flemish countryside. Family-run Quasimodo Tours have city and countryside bike tours, as well as the excellent tour of Flanders Fields. I went on this tour back in November and it was incredible, taking you into the nearby battlefields and fought-over cities of World War I.

The nearby city of Ghent is also another option, particularly if the crowds in Brugge are getting to you. Ghent boasts similar architecture to Brugge and has a decent buzz as a student town. However, it’s a bit rougher around the edges so a lot of tourists dismiss it. It’s definitely worth a morning or afternoon as is on the same train line as Brugge. Both Ghent trains stations are close to the city centre; it’s not a bad idea to disembark at one and walk to the other through the city centre. Use-It also has a map of Ghent.

Come here for a bit of peace - the very happening Ghent.

Those travelling by train to Brugge will usually go via Antwerp or Brussels. You may want to chuck your bag in a locker at the station and walk around for the hour or two; both stations are close to their respective city centres, and Antwerp’s station is a work of art in itself.

What can I get Mum?

Brugge is full of tourist paraphernalia and is a decent place to shop. The German institution, the famous Kathe Wohlfahrt Christmas shop, has a large outlet in Brugge right in the middle of the city. Lace shops also abound and are insanely cheap for homemade wares. Last but definitely not least is chocolate; shops are everywhere specialising mainly in delicious pralines. Prices vary considerably so make sure you shop around.

How do I stop my tummy rumbling?

You can get decent fries (called ‘frites’ here instead of ‘patat’) from countless snackshops; the cheaper ones tend to be on the outskirts of the city centre and closer to the train station. The Belgian delights of waffles and mussels can also be found – waffles at little stands and mussels mainly in restaurants. Mussels are actually traditionally served with fries so don’t be worried that you’ve been tricked.

Just be aware that restaurants can be on the pricey and touristy side. Double check your bill before you pay; items such as bread and water have made an appearance on my bill before I questioned it.

But what you’re really here for is the chocolate; those on a budget can stock up at the supermarket where you can get yourself into a coco-coma for less than a couple of coins. Otherwise, chocolate shop-hop; there’s dozens around, some of which give out free samples.

Where’s the pub?

In terms of drinking, you’ve got a wealth of options here. My personal favourite is the tiny ‘De Garre’, on the street of the same name. There’s a huge variety of beers here but try ‘De Garre’. At only €3,50 and 11.4 per cent, they have a limit of three per customer!

The dangerous beers which are served at De Garre - gotta love the complimentary cheese.

There’s a large number of little pubs throughout Brugge. Prices are pretty cheap for the quality you’re getting; some of the best-known Belgian beers are Leffe, Hoegaarden and Stella Artois, but there’s over eight hundred you can try in Brugge alone. Even if you’re not a beer drinker, this is the best place to find something for your tastes whether it be cherry, coffee or even chocolate-flavoured beer.

Right. So how do I get there?

Getting to Brugge is easy. From London, it’s easiest, cheapest and fastest to catch the train. Jump on the Eurostar headed for Brussels; just make sure you choose your destination as ‘Any Belgian Station’ rather than ‘Brussels’. This will mean that you won’t need buy an extra ticket for the journey between Brussels and Brugge. Prices can vary immensely so the best thing to do is to book your train online as soon as possible. Deals start at €80 return but you’re more likely to pay around the €100 mark.

You can also fly of course; Brussels has two airports; EasyJet use the main one whereas RyanAir fly into Brussels Charleroi Airport.

If you’re already on the continent, Brugge is best reached by train. Half-hourly trains connect the city with both Brussels and Antwerp (just make sure you change at the right Brussels station; there are three). You can look for deals online; for example if you’re travelling from the Netherlands, you can purchase a Benelux Weekend Pass for forty per cent off the normal price at www.nshispeed.nl.

Regular bus services also serve Brugge; Eurolines connects the city but check online beforehand as services are usually limited to one per day.

Brugge’s train station is pretty close to the centre of town, about a ten to fifteen minute walk if you know where you’re going. I’ve gotten lost twice, so it’s not a bad idea to catch the bus directly to your accommodation when you first arrive. There’s a small bus station right out the front of the train station; you can buy your ticket (€1,20) from either the driver or the little booth. The bus network is very comprehensive and links up most of the city centre.

Growing up in Australia, short trips usually centred around two things; the bush or the beach. We’d go camping down in the Otway Ranges each school holidays, and go down the Bellarine or Mornington Peninsulas in search for a couple of free square metres of sand.

I distinctly remember my first major pang of jealousy regarding a European’s’ minibreak. I was in Hamburg, and a bunch of Londoners were staying at my hostel. They were all seeing the city as well as Berlin for their long weekend. Poms, it seems, have public holidays especially designed for cavorting off around the continent. They’re called bank holidays, and nobody’s ever been able to articulate to me as to why they actually exist.

Since living in Holland, Paul and I have minbreaked back to Hamburg, up to Holland’s northern cities of Groningen and Leeuwarden, caught the train over to London for a few days and I even made a last minute decision to see the Christmas markets in Cologne for a weekend. Paul’s even taken a day or two off work to visit me in Berlin, Prague and Barcelona.

It’s pretty easy then, to see why the UK is such an attractive option to tens of thousands of young Aussies, Kiwis and Canadians. You can easily get a working holiday permit, the job market is in your lingua franca and the continent is only a train ride or short budget flight away.

So, finally I’m going to use a bit of my knowledge gained as a tour guide and every Sunday night I’ll publish a new ‘A weekend in…’. If you’re in Europe already and saving up those pennies, it might give you a few ideas. If you’re still Down Under, there might be a few places you can sew together to create your own trip.

In any case, it will definitely make you jealous of anyone ‘celebrating’ a bank holiday.

There’s a few new things that I’ll be rolling out over the coming weeks, like guest posts, more topical  articles and a new series of blogs on ‘A weekend in…’. You can also expect more on what’s coming up in a few short months, the Olympics themselves!

In the meantime, have a look around and let me know what you think. Feel free to send through your thoughts (hopefully I’ve mended all the broken links in the transfer), or if you’d like to be a guest blogger, just flick an email over to caitlyn@olympicwanderings.com.

Can you tell I’ve just gone back to uni and this has been the result of many hours of procrastination?

Enjoy!

I am not somebody who likes the cold. I’m Australian, dammit! My idea of a cold day still hovers around the twelve degree-mark (yes, that’s celcius) and believe that the only good thing about the winter is the fact that it’s the footy season. And that I quite like to make soup.

I discovered one other thing I quite like about the cold recently; the snow.

The view from our new house; ‘new’ buildings and the Grote Kerk. Literally the ‘Big Church’; this is the city’s 500-year old cathedral.

Mind you, you have to go through a lot of the bad things about the cold to actually get to the point where you can appreciate the snow. Lots of drab skies, dreary rain and the awful eastern winds which cut right through all the layers you’re wearing and hit you directly in the spine.

I was not looking forward to any of this when I came back to Holland. Paul greeted me at Schipol Airport with my coat, and I dutifully put it on over my more summery wardrobe. But when we changed trains at Leiden and were forced out on the platform, I was surprised. It wasn’t that cold at all, somewhere in the vicinity of ten degrees or so. Melbourne sort of cold. I could definitely handle this, I thought.

And I did. All of Europe’s weather seems to arrive at the pace of Greek debt payments; slowly, if at all. Summer stretched on into October; wet autumn conditions rolled into January. So, when the temperature plummeted into the mid-minus twenties on Friday night, well, it took everyone a little by surprise.

We got a little warning, though. A sprinkling of snow dusted the ground last week when it hit the minuses, but Friday Mother Nature decided to go a bit wild. Big, thick flakes of snow danced around, blanketing the ground so you couldn’t make out footpaths, roads and bike lanes.It was the first time since arriving here that I witnessed more people walking than cycling.

Downtown Leiden. We started a walking tour and an hour later the place looked like this.

It was absolutely gorgeous and I actually enjoyed walking around town, seeing toddlers being pulled along on their sleds down the street and schoolkids (and Paul) having snowball fights. Stomping through that fresh snow, the stuff that has just settled on the ground without dirty cars spluttering upon it, really can’t be beaten.

The Voorstraat in Dordrecht, the longest shopping street in the Netherlands. All the shoppers have been scared away.

Last Friday night was Holland’s coldest since February 1956. Its coldest was fourteen years before that, in 1942, right in the middle of World War Two when freezing temperatures killed thousands. Thankfully, though still a major issue like in most developed countries, the homeless have been given shelter and causalties have been minimal. This leaves everyone to instead discuss one thing and one thing only; the ice.

The Dutch are the best in the world at ice skating, particularly the long-track type. For days last week, Dutchies were watching the ice in their canals and lakes; the nightly news offers 24/7 updates on its thickness on its website. Paul’s desperate to chuck his skates on and zip around in the freezing cold. But what they’re really waiting for is the running of Elfstedentocht; an historic speed skating competition held in the north of the country only when the ice is fifteen centimetres thick. But here’s the catch; it just so happens to be the longest track in the world, covering two hundred kilometres. That’s a lot of ice, and hence, the race hasn’t been held since 1997.

The Dutchies are holding their collective breath. And so am I. It only took one snowfall to bring out the winter cheer in me.

As a kid, it was probably what I most associated with travelling, and therefore the airport was a whole new world for me. My favourite part of the airport was (and probably still is) the departures board. I particularly love the old-fashioned one at Melbourne Airport, complete with the little black tiles that flip over after every departure. I love reading them and knowing that I could make a last-minute decision and jump on a plane to Nairobi, or Vladivostok, or countless places I’ve never even heard of.

Even now, just before I’m about to fly away to some foreign part of the world, I get a bit excited about the plane. What movies am I going to watch? What perfume can I try duty-free? And will there be alcohol samples (always a winner when delayed at Heathrow)?

This excitement lasts until I actually arrive at the airport. I have an uncanny ability to always choose to do the wrong thing – check in online when that queue is a mile long, or decide to wait until the airport and therefore suffer the consequences. The whole charade annoys every fibre of my being; the endless queuing, the liquids shenanigans, the gruff passport control and the interrogations at customs.

It was quite apt, then, that I began to read the book ‘Grounded’ on the way back to Amsterdam. The book’s author, Seth Stevenson, hates flying to the point where he decided to travel around the world via surface transport only. The idea isn’t particularly new – Oz-Bus for example has being doing London to Sydney bus trips for decades – but it’s modern take on it all was refreshing. I agree with Stevenson, but to a slightly lesser extent – yes, I flew from Amsterdam to Melbourne, but over the past year I opted for trains between the UK and Holland instead of flying. It was cheaper, better for the environment, and in the end faster.

Nevertheless, I had to put that all behind me to get back to Oz. I had the same old deal – an hour wait to the check-in desks. I was travelling with Emirates, an airline that has quickly become my favourite. I’ve flirted with a lot of different long-haulers (after deeming Qantas just too expensive) and Emirates has come up trumps. The staff are friendly, the planes look new, the food is decent and I’ve found prices hard to beat.

Compare this with British Airways, for example. The last time I flew with them the plane was ancient, I was squished, the food was terrible even for plane food, and the flight attendants all seemed to be of the age and attitude where they would soon start bringing in bits of junk to ‘Antiques Roadshow’. The movies didn’t even start when you wanted to start watching them, rather they were on a continuous loop, so if you missed the first few minutes you had to wait another two hours or so to catch it again. You would think that dividing the twelve-hour long flight into nice and neat two-hour segments would make the time pass quicker, but no. I remember being at breaking point going over Siberia.

The only thing that restrained me from going completely mad was the flight plan.The flight plan on a long trip has sort of a hypnotic effect attached to it. I have seen people watch it for hours at a time. I myself am a bit besotted with it. The flight in question, for example, took me from Tokyo to London via the Arctic Circle. All of a sudden you become a bit of a pilot yourself, and start telling yourself that it’s all about tailwinds, Earth’s rotation and some other compound word where half of it is ‘nose’.

Just when you start trying to work out what the other part of that word is, you are served a tray of charming British plane food, usually with a clatter and a stern reminder to hoist your chair up. You never even put your chair down, or did you? You try and remember but are distracted again by the screen telling you that the outside temperature is minus a gazillion degrees, and you start to think about how cold this is and how many layers you would need to wear. That is of course, until you see the ground speed, and you instead ponder just how that would feel on the ground, whether you would actually be able to see anything and if your mouth really did that funny thing where your cheeks are all blown up and you can see your back teeth.

But this time I wasn’t with BA, I was with Emirates. And when I finally made it to the front of the queue, I heard those elusive words.”Well, this flight is very, very full so you have been upgraded to business class.”

And with that, all of my resentment towards flying evaporated. I pretty much ran towards the plane, almost knocking people over to get to my seat. Never had I flown in front of the wings before. It was a whole new world, complete with champagne on arrival.I was like a kid in a candy shop, pressing buttons at random until one removed the privacy screen between me and my snooty neighbour. I took one photo – one only – due to my flash lighting up the whole compartment.

The infamous shot.

I didn’t want to sleep, but I did, knowing it would help later. Lying flat, I was able to sleep like a baby.

My business ticket was only to Dubai, so after that I went back to cattle class, squished between a very large Scottish gentleman and my window. All of my gin and tonics in business class suddenly didn’t seem such a good idea any more.

I kept hearing the Jerry Seinfeld quote; “Elaine, I can’t go back to coach. I can’t. I won’t.” But I did. And on the journey home, when I was offered an upgrade to Singapore for AU$200, I declined. Because I’d rather travel often than travel in style but rarely.

The book is simply called ‘Melbourne’, a title which evokes grandeur in the vein of the Baz Luhrmann flop ‘Australia’. I thought it was a good idea to give it a go after leaving the city again. I share a lot of books, and opinions of books, with my mum. When she handed it over, she hesitated. The main reason why she wanted me to read it was so she could discuss it with me.

A lot of long-term travellers despise their hometown, but not me. I love it, though its main shortcoming is that it’s just so far away from everything. I love so many things about it; its love affair with sport, its obsession with Asian food, its grand goldrush-era buildings standing proudly next to modern glassy types, its loveable clunky trams and the general feeling that something’s always on, whether it be a concert, festival, sporting match or some sort of combination of all three.

I hadn’t heard of the author before; Sophie Cunningham. She was brought up in Hawthorn, has lived the majority of her adult years in Fitzroy and is just one big whopping latte-sipping north of the river snob. (That part isn’t in her bio, let’s just say that’s my take.) The amount of name-dropping in the book is laughable, to the point where I realised I knew the names of just about all of her friends except the protagonist herself.

I think my biggest problem with the book is the name. If it had been called ‘Fitzroy’ I would have understood; it’s full of references to yoga classes, literary festivals, terraced homes and bicycles. All very well and good, but it’s not the Melbourne I know. The Melbourne I know, in all its glory, is just as much suburbia as the perceived glamour of inner-city life. The only real mention of a Melbourne suburb in the book is regarding Ringwood;

Certainly by the time I was to work out at Penguin, in the early nineties, the drive up the Maroondah Highway to Ringwood no longer felt like heading towards a bohemia and the hills. It was more like being stuck an hour out of town and forced to buy potatoes in their jackets from the car yard next door for lunch.

In a similar vein, the only mention of Melbourne’s west is of Footscray, as if ticking the ‘west’ and therefore ‘multicultural’ boxes. I could find no reference to Melbourne’s modern problems; namely rising property prices (okay, she made a fleeting reference about it more to do with a whinge about the gentrification of Fitzroy), neglected public transport and the general cost of living.

Even a slightly lesser problem, in some eyes, is the disappearance of Melbourne’s bookstores. Now that Borders has been banished to cyberspace,  Highpoint Shopping Centre, one of Australia’s biggest, is without a single bookstore. No, Cunningham instead boasts of Melbourne’s independent booksellers – despite Hill of Content being now owned by Collins’ Booksellers. Readings in Carlton has always intimidated me, as if dozens of eyes are judging the fact that sometimes I like to read the Shopaholic books. My favourite independent bookshop, the Sun in Yarraville, is sadly neglected.

No, Cunningham’s Melbourne is very relaxed and comfortable. She’s someone who, in graphic detail, explained a weekend in the Nicholas Building where she copied a poem on an old-fashioned printing press.

I’m not claiming that I know best, but more that as a ‘traditional’ Melbournian, one who goes to the footy every week, went to Melbourne University and loves Cinema Nova, and hell, is even a latte-sipping snob at times, this book didn’t even go close to representing my idea of Melbourne.

I am a sports fan, so I like tennis. When the Australian Open would be on, I’d usually get a ground pass and hang around for the day. I’d watch most night matches on the telly. And when Wimbledon’s on, I’d stay up late half a dozen times to get some grass court action.

A ground pass at Wimbledon back in 2007.

Tennis is one of those funny sports. I tend to live by the rule that you can tell a lot about a sport by the fans it attracts, and this rule fits tennis to a tee, so to say. Think about it. How many times have you heard people say, “I don’t like sports but I like tennis”?

Too many times, I say. But at the same time, I enjoy it. I played it a bit as a kid down at Laverton Park (badly), and I remember the night our coach brought in a speedometer to test how fast our serves were. Mine clocked an amazing thirty-five kilometres an hour. Any slower and it probably would have lost its trajectory and fallen down from the sky. Only then did I get an appreciation of Mark Philippoussis and Andy Roddick’s serves which hovered around the mid 200s.

Speaking of Mark Philippoussis, he does have a place in my heart for a couple of reasons. Firstly, he was a local boy, coming from the adjoining seaside suburb of Williamstown. But more importantly, he played in the first match I ever saw live, back in 1995.

Now, this match has gone down in the record books as one of the great ones; one of the first epic night matches at Melbourne Park. Philippoussis was only nineteen and up against world number one and reigning champion Pete Sampras. Belting down thirty aces, ‘the Scud’ was never troubled and won in straight sets. And, at the tender age of ten, I was hooked.

The mid-nineties were a time where you could decide to go to the night session at the tennis that afternoon, and off you’d go into the city. Before long I would opt for the ground pass, usually sitting on Show Court 1 (now the controversially named Margaret Court Arena) until roving around later in the day. I would usually go on Day 8, where you’d get good fourth-round contests, yet smaller crowds than on the Sunday.

It all culminated back in 2002, when, as Amy and I were leaving, we were offered free tickets to Rod Laver Arena by some old ladies also departing for the day. Inside, we witnessed one of the best games in recent memory, a five-setter between the then youngsters Roger Federer and Tommy Haas.

Things have changed in the past five or so years. If you got a ground pass on Day 8 in 2012, you would have been delighted by match after match of doubles and the junior competition. Hisense Arena, once open for those with ground passes, is now fully ticketed and the word is that Margaret Court Arena is soon getting a roof and will be fully ticketed as well. I find the ads proudly confirming that the ground passes have stayed the same price again a bit hard to swallow; sure they’re the same price, but for a much more inferior product.

Of course, that’s the price you pay for having a Grand Slam in Melbourne, and staying there. We’re completely spoilt by having it year after year, and feeling as if it is a given to occur in our hometown. That wasn’t always the case, and was the reason why the tournament moved from Kooyong to Melbourne Park.

I don’t dislike tennis, not at all. I can probably trace, however, its slight decline in my heart over the years; its fall is mirrored by cricket’s advance as my summer sport of choice. This year I’ve watched it all a bit differently. I’ve viewed most night sessions on Eurosport 1, the main Dutch sports channel. Watching Lleyton Hewitt the other night against Novak Djokovic actually gave me goosebumps when he went on to win the third set. I may have even yelled a ‘come on’ to the TV screen.

But Eurosport 1 is free of patriotic hyperbole and, shock horror, they even let a woman commentate the men’s matches. However, when I’m tuning out a bit and multitasking, I miss the sense of excitement from the commentators that can help to drag you back.

But this time, due to the language barrier, I’m not dragged back, and I can look up ten minutes later and one player is a break up. I’ll be cranky that I didn’t realise, and watch for a few minutes before my attention is captured by something else. Which probably sums up my attitude to tennis these days. I can take it if it’s there, or leave it if it’s all a bit too hard.

I am a water baby. Almost literally, actually. I was first seen at Sweeny’s Swim School in Altona at the age of three, bobbing up and down and, knowing me, probably too scared to put my head under the water.

Growing up, my family would usually transport itself to a seaside location, boogie boards, sun chairs, beach tents, and every so often a dog in tow.

Jerry taking it all in at the doggie beach.

I would grab my boogie board and run (yes, one of the only times I would do so) towards the waves, only coming back for icypoles and to have my sunscreen reapplied. Although I’m a reader, reading at the beach has never done it for me. I can never get comfy and it’s way too bright. And hot. I’d rather be cooling down in the water.

Amy and I went up to the Gold Coast a couple of years back and I was adamant that we were going to ride a wave. Travellers I’d meet would always ask me if I was a surfer, as soon as I labelled myself as Australian. I needed to give it a shot. But, shopping, eating and theme-parking got in the way so much so that we didn’t even set foot on the sand.

Champagne breakfast? Don’t mind if I do.

So, with a week in Torquay planned this time around, I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. We were in the self-proclaimed surfing capital of the world so we had to give it a go. We signed up, got our wetsuits and found ourselves on a chilly beach one Thursday morning with dozens of surfers out in the distance, making it look easy. I was worried for myself.

Our instructor thankfully didn’t look like a surfer. He instead looked a little bit like Shane Jacobsen from ‘Kenny’. This definitely put my mind at ease. If Kenny could catch a wave, surely I could too.

We sat around in a semicircle and learnt the basics. The rips, the flags and the tide. Yep, yep, yep, know all that, I was thinking, going good, I’m nodding my head. At this point we were sitting on our boards. We were then told to lie on them.

Now, have you ever seen a surfboard up close? I mean, really close. They’re massive. Mine was taller than me, and I don’t mean by a little bit. My dear old boogie board was only half my size, and I was only perhaps twelve at the time. And surfboards also aren’t made of styrofoam.

Anyway, I did what I was told and I lay down. Paddle, we were told. Yep, I can do that. Now up to your knees! And leap to your feet!

Well, that’s a bit trickier. I wasn’t so good at this on land, I soon realised. How was I going to do in the water?

I was soon to find out. Off we all went, surfboards under our arms. Or, in my case, sort of dragged alongside me as it was so bloody heavy. Once I was waist-deep in the water, it got easier. I jumped on my board and lay down.

Something didn’t look right. I couldn’t get the board to point the right way. Just as I was contemplating announcing I had a faulty surfboard, I caught Kenny motioning at me.

Oh right. I was on the board backwards.

Catching waves ended up being the least of my problems. I had no problems getting my timing right, jumping on and paddling a moment or two before the wave looms up behind you. My years of boogie boarding gave me that headstart, at least.

Ditto for diving off the board. I have no problems with water getting up my nose or being tossed around underwater as if in a washing machine. And with me, it happens a lot.

My problems was coordination. Now, I’ve never been good at sports. I’m very, very good at watching them, appreciating them, but I am completely crappola at the overwhelming majority of them. For most of my time at school I was afraid of sports class – these days I’ll give them all a go, knowing I’ll look like a ninny but I’ll be the first one laughing.

I just couldn’t understand that in the microseconds after you’ve realised you’ve caught the wave, you’re supposed to leap to your feet. All I got to was mastering the upward facing dog yoga pose on the board before we were called back in to shore.

I was exhausted and I hadn’t even properly surfed yet. Kenny, however, was full of praise for everyone. We just had to get quicker at the whole process, he stressed.

OK, I was thinking. Right, serious time now. I’m going to prove all those naysayers wrong and stand up on this board if it kills me. On the sand, we went through the process again. Lying down, knees, stand. All good.

“Now do it faster!” Kenny enthused.

OK! I chanted in my head. Flat on my tummy again, upward facing dog, kneeling and…

Kenny told me later that it was the first time he’d ever seen it. Someone falling off her board, still stationary on the sand.

I did the only thing I could. I laughed, and I laughed, and I laughed. We went back into the water, and I had fun. I got halfway between kneeling and standing, sort of with one foot flat and another dangling looking for somewhere to go. So I surfed. Kind of. But better yet, I gave Kenny something to remember me by. Anyone can apparently surf, but not everybody can fall of a board whilst still on land.