Day 11: Back to the land of proper beer

Ow ow yiggity yow. That was the sound our legs made the day after that hike. I guess we didn’t stretch enough to prepare for the 2000+ steps we faced. Either way, Nellie’s knees and my calves were entirely unhappy with us. So it made walking a bit of a ginger exercise.

We ate breakfast and caught a train back to Sydney (more crazy people on this train; pro tip for traveling to the Blue Mountains: take earplugs) needing to find a way to kill most of a day until we could meet up with the brother. We stashed our bags at a storage company and took the train down to Circular Quay once again. We spent an hour or so at the tiny Museum of Sydney, then killed a few hours back at Harts Pub. My brother was nice enough to come pick us up, collect our bags and take us to The Local Taphouse, reportedly one of the best beer bars in Sydney. Our beers were, indeed, all quite tasty, as was my excellent pizza (note: it was only while typing all these blog posts that I realized just how much wood-fired pizza I’d been eating on this trip) and everyone else’s food. Top marks to The Local.

We left there and had a drink at some basement bar, Downtown at the Commons, and then zoomed home on the train. We went no further as the next day brought work for the brother and a harbour cruise for us, and it wouldn’t do to be hung over for either.

Day 9: Into the blue

We took our time on this morning, needing only to catch a noon-ish train. We re-packed for a two-day trip and walked to the train station.

Once we’d cleared the city and gotten into some nice scenery the train ride to the Blue Mountains was quite enjoyable, despite the presence of some fantastically annoying and obnoxious kids in our car. We checked into our B&B, the Glenella Guesthouse, and explored Blackheath…which took all of five minutes.

We had a very tasty lunch at a little place called the Wattle Cafe, and went back to our room to relax, have a nap, plan hikes for the next day and generally enjoy a pleasant day on our veranda with the bottle of Swooping Magpie Shiraz we’d picked up in the Margaret River.

Our dinner options were quite limited that night, as most restaurants in Blackheath close during the week, so we ended up at a trattoria down the road. It wasn’t swish, but it was simple and hearty and tasty and our server was fun. He also claimed to have made half a million creme brulées in his life, so we had to put him to the test. I’m happy to report that we had no reason to refute him.