In Pursuit of Oz: All That Light in Sydney

(Further to Lost in the Bush)

While waiting for our luggage at Sydney Airport, my eyes settled on a tiny teddy bear in a brown muffler, sitting beside a warning sign near the carousel. It had parted ways with its owner and now sat on the tiny ledge, perhaps helped there by a thoughtful stranger, waiting to be found.

It was probably just a lost toy that had nothing to do with Sydney’s history. Yet, travelling in that exciting corner of the planet, the mind was fertile ground for private metaphors. I wondered if the tiny crocheted bear beside those stern safety notices had greeted me with a gentle reminder of the resourceful and adventurous spirit of Sydneysiders, even before I had crossed the city’s threshold.

Our twenty-minute drive from the bustling airport to our Airbnb in Hurstville took us through neighbourhoods of surprising modesty: low-rise buildings, ample open spaces, brick apartment blocks, detached homes, and small commercial strips. There were no gleaming towers or sweeping boulevards, only sunlight with a brilliance all its own.

We had chosen Hurstville deliberately, sidestepping the sky-high prices of the CBD. Its proximity to the railway station, providing an easy ride to Circular Quay, and its reasonable rates sealed the deal. I found Hurstville a seasoned suburb: more capable than charming, more comforting than unforgettable. Compared to the compact accommodation we had at the Gold Coast, our Airbnb here was refreshingly spacious and modern. It was a self-contained wood-and-glass dwelling built at the rear of a house on Wright Street.

Delighted to find a capable-looking washing machine, R couldn’t resist tackling the growing pile of laundry in our bags—a decision she would soon regret, as the freshly washed clothes hung stubbornly on the drying stand, refusing to dry for the next three days.

We had been under this glittering southern sun for nearly a week, in the only continent that is also a country, yet we had still to meet the icons of Australia. Ever since childhood, this land had become synonymous with the Harbour Bridge and its younger companion, the Opera House, whose mere glimpse was enough to conjure images of kangaroos, koalas, redback spiders, taipans, sharks and stingrays. Between them, they embodied a land whose prosperity took root along its south-eastern coastline, yet whose vast, unforgiving Outback still dominated its heart; and a country whose people embraced the sun, surf and sand, and had repeatedly weathered adversity with remarkable resilience.

The cinema of Australia had been been unfolding before us for nearly a week. That afternoon, however, it was time for its leading actors to step into the frame. We set off from our new abode that afternoon to greet them, walking through the quiet residential streets of Hurstville, enjoying its wide roads, spacious footpaths, and broad grassy verges. Even the utility poles and overhead wires seemed unobtrusive, separated by so much open space.

Hurstville Central, with the railway station concourse below street level, was a leisurely fifteen-minute walk away. Its upper floors housed a Coles supermarket, fresh-food retailers, and a variety of other shops. As we intended to spend more than three days in Sydney, we bought Opal cards for our travels on the city’s public transport. Most of the suburban trains we saw were double-deckers, a novelty to us. We promptly occupied the upper deck of a T4 Eastern Suburbs service, hoping to catch wider glimpses of the city.

Sydney extended before us as a remarkably low-rise expanse, unlike the forest of skyscrapers one encounters in Singapore or Hong Kong. From the upper deck of our double-decker train we saw little beyond rooftops and gardens. Quiet service roads, rear fences, garages, warehouses, and ageing apartment blocks made a deliberate visual understatement that I later learned owed much to Sydney’s planning policies and heritage protections. Only as we approached Central did the skyline begin to gather itself. We changed to a City Circle service, plunged underground, and emerged moments later at the elevated station of Circular Quay.

Before the train had even come to a halt, we were already on the lower deck, brimming with anticipation. The twins, amused by my lingering  habit of pronouncing “Quay” to rhyme with “tray”, kept reminding me that it was simply “key”. As soon as we stepped out onto the concourse, the Harbour Bridge burst into view over the shimmering waters, silent and immense. To its right, the Opera House completed the scene, its sail-like roofs glowing in the afternoon light.

We had all seen these icons in countless photographs, yet seeing the Bridge in person, arching across the harbour, was so breathtaking that we found ourselves exclaiming in unison. Ferries glided in and out of the wharves, while the promenade teemed with people, mostly tourists, many wearing the unmistakable expression of those who had finally arrived somewhere they had long imagined. Unlike the quiet suburbs, Circular Quay seemed to distil Sydney’s grandeur into a single waterfront, its towers gleaming, ferries weaving across the harbour, and the air alive with movement.

The Opera House refuses to settle into a single identity. We first encountered it as the familiar image known to the world: a cluster of white sails poised above the harbour. Yet the moment we began walking around it, the picture dissolved. Its geometry rearranged itself with every few paces. Seen from closer quarters, the sails gave way to majestic concrete ribs, timber-lined ceilings, and vast walls of glass. Then, as we stepped back for a longer view after nightfall, the fragments quietly reassembled themselves into the elegant silhouette that had first greeted us from Circular Quay.

In Opera House, Jørn Utzon designed not merely a building to be seen, but one to be explored. From afar, it is sculpture; from the forecourt, architecture; beneath its shells, engineering; and from the harbour at night, it dissolves into light. It seemed less like a static monument than a living work of art, rewarding every change of viewpoint with a fresh composition. A few paces were enough to persuade us that the Opera House was not one monument, but many.

Unlike the chameleon-like Opera House, the Harbour Bridge retained its reassuring permanence. It stood above the harbour like an elder sibling—protective, immense, unwavering, and quietly majestic, never failing to satisfy the eye. As twilight deepened, however, the harbour acquired an altogether different aura. Countless shimmering reflections danced upon the dark waters, while the steady murmur of the evening crowds drifted across the waterfront.

We lingered at Circular Quay for the next three and a half hours, strolling repeatedly between the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. Every change of position offered a fresh composition, and we found ourselves stopping again and again, sometimes to admire the view, sometimes to photograph it, and often to ask passing strangers to capture the four of us together, before happily returning the favour in turn. The splendour of the harbour was impossible to ignore. Yet all the while, we remained aware that we were standing where modern Australia had taken its first tentative steps.

The trouble with history is that it cannot be observed directly. It must be reconstructed from the clues that survive, leaving the imagination to bridge the centuries. At one point on the promenade, the present was interrupted by a square of brass, pointing out that I was standing on the shoreline of Circular Quay in 1844.

Nothing about the bustling waterfront around me suggested 1844. The wooden sailing ships that had once relied upon wind, tide and stars were gone. Engines, radio and radar belonged to a future beyond imagination. The Opera House did not exist, the Harbour Bridge would not rise for another eighty-eight years, and the harbour still reached the spot where I stood.

The plaque invited another leap backwards. In January 1788, Governor Arthur Phillip rejected Botany Bay in favour of Sydney Cove, drawn by its deep natural harbour and the fresh water of the Tank Stream. Even then, the survival of that ragged company of convicts, marines and officials was far from assured. The fledgling settlement stood at the very edge of the known world, sustained by dwindling provisions and fragile hope. Crops failed, the Tank Stream was gradually fouled, and every relief ship lay months away across the oceans.

The isolation is difficult to comprehend today. A modern city in distress can expect assistance within days. Sydney Cove could wait many months, and there was no certainty that every voyage would reach its destination. There came times when the colony’s future hung by little more than endurance, prudent leadership, good fortune, and perhaps a measure of providence. As I stood watching ferries glide across the harbour in effortless succession, it was difficult to imagine that these same waters had once carried a handful of sea-worn sailing ships upon whose survival rested the future of a colony that would one day become a continent-sized nation.

From Circular Quay, it was impossible not to wander into The Rocks. By then, evening had given way to night as we entered Sydney’s oldest precinct of sandstone buildings, narrow streets, outdoor cafés, and trees wrapped in fairy lights. It was easy to imagine oneself in an old European quarter, were it not for the unmistakable cadence of Australian voices floating from the cafés.

Circular Quay is the undeniable jewel in Sydney’s crown, but The Rocks is where the city remembers itself. The precinct possessed a distinctly old-world atmosphere, inviting not admiration so much as unhurried wandering. Our wanderings ended at an outdoor table of a small restaurant spilling onto the footpath, bringing a memorable first evening in Sydney to a fitting close.

The return to Hurstville was uneventful, the Metro carrying us back with the hallmark efficiency of Sydney’s public transport. We emerged from the station with a throng of passengers, only to watch the procession gradually dissolve into smaller streams as people peeled away at one intersection after another. By the time we neared our Airbnb, we had the streets to ourselves.

Night was only beginning to settle over Hurstville. The air was cold but not biting. It was crisp and remarkably clean. Above us, an indigo sky stretched across the suburb, its scattered clouds drifting silently overhead. Traffic rushed along the main road at impressive speed, yet we never felt uneasy. The pedestrian crossings inspired confidence, and motorists unfailingly yielded when the lights demanded it.

Along this quiet walk, we found abandoned shopping trolleys here and there on the residential streets, sometimes still carrying a can of soft drink or an open loaf of bread. They seemed oddly out of place amid the otherwise orderly suburb, hinting at lives and stories we could only speculate about.

Later that night, sharp flashes of lightning split the darkness, followed by rolls of thunder. Rain arrived in sudden, forceful bursts, only to retreat as abruptly as it had come. By morning, however, the night’s drama had vanished without a trace. The sky was clear, the streets washed clean, and the morning arrived with a brightness that seemed almost too sharp for the eyes.

(to be continued…)