The Rocks, apparently the oldest part of Sydney, is a collection of 19th century buildings with thick walls, small rooms, and sometimes very uneven stone floors. There is a museum, but most of the area consists of shops and eating places aimed at tourists. At the museum, as at the Hyde Street Barracks, the interested visitor is shown various things that were found inside walls, under floors, and tossed into a nearby well that was used as a dump by 19th century residents. The bowls of countless clay pipes, a hat, a shoe, and a small illegal rum still by a long-dead owner which, according to the accompanying text, explains his rather quick wealth. Rum was apparently a form of currency back then, which made moonshining tantamount to counterfeiting and a very serious crime. He probably dumped the still down the well when it looked like he was about to get caught.

I was hungry. I wanted to eat, but the fact is, I found The Rocks confusing. I’d walk into what I thought was the entrance to a restaurant, be pointed by a helpful employee towards the back, go through a couple of small rooms, then find myself on the patio of a completely different restaurant, with no clear idea of how to get out. I tripped and fell twice on uneven floors and endured the humiliation of being helped to my feet and anxiously questioned about my well being as someone handed my glasses back to me. Finally I decided the thing to do was just get out of the Rocks and find a place less permeated with history. I did dip into a small bookstore where I found a Ruth Park book on Sydney, so the visit was definitely worth while.

As I left I passed another class of schoolboys — this time dressed in home-made 19th century costumes, sitting on a bench being lectured by a female teacher dressed in a poke bonnet and long skirt.

***

Fish and chips at Circular Quay. Exactly what I wanted and needed, and therefore the perfect meal. I sat at an outdoor table, savoring  fried food (and a generous squeeze of lemon) with a coke, watching the sun bounce off the water, gulls fight and crowds of weekenders pass, and listening to two painted aborigine buskers play something cheerful and secretive on a didgeridoo on the sidewalk nearby. At least it seemed cheerful and secretive. Didgeridoos always sound to me like someone talking just after taking a long toke on a joint.