Hello you lot.

Now, I've had a few reports of reader fatigue. I know, I know - I do go on in these emails. And they're getting longer, too. So sorry about all that. I'll employ the use of a quick summary again, so you can get back to doing the crossword or whatever it was you were doing before this email pinged into your life:

1) Pop music becomes life in bizarre "Down Under" travelling scenario.
2) I have a good moan at young English "backpackers".
3) Yes, I've become an old git.
4) I meet a dingo.
5) And go sailing.

Anyway. Really I'm writing all these for my benefit not yours. They're my way of keeping a journal. So you can all quit complaining.

Bula!

(Actually I'm back in Australia again so that should be "G'Day", but you can put so much into a "Bula!" I don't want to let it go).

I have three weeks to work my way up Queensland's "sunshine coast" from Brisbane to Cairns. Let's see what fun I can have along the way.

Men at Play

I check into "The Palace" hostel in Brisbane and stroll into the TV room to see if the rugby's on. I've been following the southern hemisphere's Super 12 league since arriving in Cape Town for the opening game of the season. The Super 12 is a competition between the best teams from South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand. The standard of rugby is way ahead of the European game - it's heart-stopping to watch - and today is semi-final day. The match isn't on (instead, a bunch of English kids are sat around watching - we're actually in Australia remember - "Home and Away") but two lads jump up and we go find a pub to watch the game.

Tinker & Steve

And so it is that I meet Tinker and Foxy.

Two cracking rugby games and eight pints of Australian lager later and we're getting along very well indeed. Turns out they've got a 1971 VW Campervan and are heading north up the coast. They offer me a ride and the next morning we set out on Queensland's "Bruce Highway" (I kid you not).

Officially, the first day of winter is just six days away. But it's still blissfully warm in Queensland. Locals tell us the last couple of years have seen strange disruptions to the area's usual weather patterns: No rain for months and then torrential downpours; summer lingering for longer than it should. Residual effects from El Niño? Global Warming? No one knows. But for three English fools trundling up the coast in a campervan the constant sunny weather is all good.

The VW's got bags of character but it has seen better days. On the road we exchange waves with plenty of other VWs, many with custom paint jobs and with surf boards strapped to the roof. We keep the spliffs rolling...

Yes.

I'm travelling in a fried-out Combi. On a hippy trail. With a head full of zombie.

Fantastic!

No? Never mind. I'm smiling, anyway. And I'm happy - '80s nostalgia aside - because I'm back on the open road and, courtesy of Tinker and the Fox, I've shaken myself free from the established backpacker "circuit".

"The Circuit"

You've got to be careful you don't get sucked into the established backpacker circuit.

The problem is that it's too easy to travel in Eastern Australia: There are only two routes to choose from - you either head north up the coast from Sydney to Cairns, or you come back down again (so it's fairly straightforward no matter how drunk you get); Eastern Australia is safe, cheap, and the sun shines most of the time; Add to all this the fact that everyone speaks English, and that Sydney is the turnaround or halfway mark for the vast majority of "round the world" air tickets sold in Europe, and it's easy to see why every beach, billabong and eucalyptus grove in Eastern Australia is swarming with more young "backpackers" than you can wave a didgereedoo at.

Now some of these young kids are so cool it hurts: 18 years old and far more together, funny, and wise than I'll ever be. The vast majority, however, are either sporting fake dreadlocks (ugh), wandering around in gangs wearing identical Manchester United shirts (grrrk), or spending their days watching videos waiting for the "backpacker happy hour" to kick off at the pub.

The enterprising Australians have built an entire industry around this torrent of young scumbags. At every town there are "backpacker" hostels, "backpacker" pubs, and restaurants offering "backpacker" lunch specials. There are rival fleets of "backpacker" buses competing for the honor of driving you to the next "backpacker" destination up the road.

Competition for the backpacker dollar is fierce. (And this is before you consider all the places looking to flog you a new backpack).

Generally these "backpacker" enterprises offer the cheapest prices. But in giving them your business you risk getting swept along a very well-trodden "backpacker" path and seeing bugger all of the real Australia. You can go from hostel to bus to "activity" to bus to pub to hostel and meet no one other than backpackers and perma-smiled members of Australia's tourist industry.

Top 10 People You'll Meet in an Australian Backpackers Hostel

1. Three young lads from York.
2. Devastatingly attractive Brazilian woman.
3. Group of Japanese who each gamely offer you their six English conversation openers ("Where are you from?" "What is your job?" etc) before quickly, inevitably - and sadly - running out of material.
4. Tedious bloke from Cardiff who insists on showing you card tricks.
5. Young London bloke fresh from watching his first fire-dancing show. "And then, right, this hippy bloke who was spinning this stick SET FIRE TO IT!!!" [Incredulous laughter] "I mean, what's all THAT about???"
6. Silent Swedish couple, noses buried in their "Lonely Planet" guidebooks.
7. Ultra enthusiastic Albanian bloke.
8. Well-travelled "Been there, done that" bloke with permed hair. You'll want to kick his teeth in.
9. Couple of pissed Scousers in their 50s. Drink all day, listen to Lonnie Donnigan tapes, never leave the hostel.
10. 100+ English "gap year" kids. Scum! Actually, I'm being a tad unfair. The sad truth is that all these kids MAKE ME FEEL OLD. (And I must be bloody getting old. Upon arriving in a new city I get all excited about checking out the botanical gardens, for fuck's sake).

Strange Cargo

So anyway, Tinker, Foxy and I are heading north up the coast. And we're having a laugh. It's great to hang out with two good English lads. Makes me feel optimistic about coming back to England in the summer. They're fun, healthy - and they start to bring the best out of me. We visit Steve "Crocodile Hunter" Irwin's zoo and check out the crocodiles. (Steve isn't there himself, disappointingly, but Tinker buys a Steve Irwin outfit from the gift shop - so we get the next best thing. We pass on the Steve Irwin slippers, cutlery, and writing stationary. But we do buy a little Steve Irwin doll to hang from the VW's rear-view mirror). We learn that you have nothing to fear from crocodiles as long as you never venture within 10 feet of any kind of water. Ever.

Eventually we arrive in Hervey Bay, the gateway to Fraser Island.

Fraser Island

Fraser Island is the world's largest sand island. It's about 40 miles long and 15 miles wide. Most of the area is scrubby woodland with a couple of freshwater lakes and streams. You can't swim in the sea because there are too many sharks. It's home to hundreds of wild dingos and not much else. On paper, Fraser Island doesn't have much to brag about.

But tons of people we've met have told us that their trip to Fraser Island was the highlight of their Australian tour. "You just have to do it" they explain, somewhat cryptically. So we sign ourselves up for a three-day self-drive trip.

Here's how it works: Lots of other people have signed up too and we all watch a video (starring "Park Ranger Tanya") that instructs us on how to avoid getting abducted by dingos. Then we're divided into groups of ten. Each group is given tickets for the ferry, a map of the island, and an enormous Toyota Landcruiser 4x4 packed with camping and cooking equipment. And that's it. You then have to work out among your group what you're going to eat for three days, who's going to buy it, cook it, etc. And then off you go.

So a group of ten random people are chucked into a fairly intense situation. And you just have to make it work. It either turns out great or resembles some kind of 1970's disaster movie.

Our group puts in the effort and we make it work.

At night Tinker pretends to be a dingo and fools the whole campsite. We go running down the sand dunes under the moonlight. I get everyone drumming on pots and pans. We wake up at dawn to watch the sharks feeding in the shallows. We have to dig our 4x4 out of sand dunes and then take it racing along the beach. There's a fishing tournament going on and Tinker gets himself interviewed live on "Fish FM" radio - and then we all go in and sing "God Save The Queen". We cook up a great spaghetti bolognese. Fox meets a girl and falls in love...

Our group spends three days laughing. (Sometimes at the depressed faces we see peering from the windows of some of the other 4x4s).

It's all good. Who knew so much sand could be so much fun?

[Except, bizarrely, after six months of injury-free travel - and just as everything else is coming together so well - I badly cut my right foot twice on the same day. First I find a pair of scissors buried in the sand. Next I skewer myself on a sharp stick. Coincidence? Who knows. Any theories from students of the Interconnectedness Of All Things gratefully received.]

Instant Karma

While we're at it, here's another strange thing: In six months of travel, I had stuff go missing just twice.

1) Todd, the guy in the bunk above me, is getting some laundry together. He finds in his kit a black t-shirt that isn't his. He asks around, no one claims it, so I say I'll have it. It's a really nice black t-shirt. Later that day on the bus to Sydney I realize that I've lost my hat. I never got it back from this bloke Duncan, who I'd lent it to in exchange for his surfboard for the day. So I took a t-shirt and lost a hat.

2) I'm checking out of a hostel. This guy comes running after me saying "Hey mate, you forgot your shorts!" He's waiving these Diesel shorts in the air. I tell him they're not mine, he says "Well they were under your bunk" so I take them. That night, I'm getting ready to turn in and I've lost my sleeping bag. It completely vanished. So I took some shorts and ended up losing my bed.

Instant Karma's gonna get you. Don't doubt it.

It's all happening

But karma cuts both ways, of course. And me, Tinker and the Fox are making good vibes.

Sailing

We continue heading north. We pull into Airlie beach and park up on the waterfront. We book ourselves on to a three-day sailing trip around the Whitsunday Islands on board "The British Defender", an ex-Whitbread Round-The-World Challenge yacht. We leave at 8am the next morning.

So we have an evening to kill.

I phone San Francisco on a whim, only to find it's Jason's birthday (sorry mate, that was a fluke). Fox calls home and makes the tough move of breaking up with his girlfriend of six years. Tinker's talking to everyone and we meet the whole town. We need money for beer, so I enter the Airlie Beach karaoke competition and win a $50 bar tab. Sitting in the audience is Gary Lord, a guy I worked with at Future Publishing in Bath ten years ago ("Last time I saw you, you were singing karaoke in Bath" he teases me). I meet a girl.

Shit's going down.

And then I notice it's a full moon. It always feels as if the volume's turned up to eleven when it's a full moon.

The next day we get up early and - after scoring some weed off of the groundskeeper at the local hostel - board our yacht. Our trip costs $330 Aus (£100 GB) for three days sailing, all food included. For a couple of calm days we chug along using the motor but then the wind picks up and we SAIL. I've been chatting up the captain (getting him a little stoned at night) and so he lets me have a steer. Feel's pretty cool, steering a racing yacht into the wind - all the people sat up on one side of the boat, the other side dipping into the water. So this is what it's like to be in Duran Duran.

Except that Simon le Bon never had to do battle with the box jellyfish. At least, no encounters were ever featured on Top of the Pops.

The box jellyfish is Queensland's public enemy number one during the summer. A sting from a box jellyfish can kill you. At the very least it will hurt. A lot. So jumping into the ocean isn't an option. At least not without wearing a full-body "stinger suit". To make matters worse, they've just discovered a new kind of deadly jellyfish in the Queensland waters, one that's as big as a thumbnail. Some poor fellow SWALLOWED ONE earlier in the season and met with a very grisly end.

Crikey.

So we enjoy our sailing, but swim from the boat to the beach in a state of terror. And as water splashes over the side of the boat I keep my mouth firmly shut.

Beach Bums

We get back to land, and I'm into the last stretch of my time in Australia. I really should have put it to some good use but the temptation to simply guff around with the boys is too great.

In the end, Fox takes off in the VW headed for Surfer's Paradise to catch up with his new love. Last I heard they were very happy together. Tinker and I spend some lazy days in Airlie Beach. I teach him to balance rocks, he teaches me plenty of new bar tricks. We hang out with the crew from The British Defender - I've got the offer of a crewing job if I want it. We check into a self-catering apartment with a couple of young Aussie lads and make cookery videos. We meet Bully - an enormous Aussie local - who does the rounds chatting up all the female tourists. "Hey fellahs!" Bully yells over to us from where he's sat in the middle of a group of girls from Vancouver. "Guess what? All these Sheilas are from Canadia!"

But soon my time is up. I've caught a cold so I can't scuba dive in the Great Barrier Reef, and I'll regret missing out on that. By all accounts it truly is one of the wonders of the world.

I say goodbye to Tinker, catch the bus up the final stretch of coast to Cairns, and hop on a flight to Hong Kong.

I'll miss Australia. I'll miss how easy it is to be happy here.

- Neil