Sand, sun and V8 supercars
Australia’s diverse Hunter Region offers a heady mix of adventure, wine and gastronomy, writes Lorna Thornber.
An ex-boyfriend of mine wound up in hospital after trying quad-biking in the States, so I was more than slightly apprehensive about giving it a go myself in Port Stephens. But the promotional pictures of people hooning across a lunar-like landscape in the Aboriginal-owned Worimi Conservation Lands made it look like an opportunity that only an apprehensive fool would pass up.
Arriving at Stockton Bight, home to the largest coastal sand dunes in the Southern Hemisphere for a ‘‘cultural quad-biking experience’’ with Sand Dune Adventures, we were issued with helmets and given brief instructions on how to operate the gutsy-by-tour-standards 400cc bikes. It sounded easy enough. The brakes, we were told, were all but unnecessary in the sand. All we needed to do was accelerate – and hold on.
Setting off in a jerky line across the evershifting dunes, which reach heights of more than 40 metres, my excitement soon overtook – then completely obliterated – my nerves. It wasn’t long before I was cursing the guy in front of me for going too slowly.
The nerves kicked in again when we reached the top of a particularly high dune and, after strict instructions not to brake on the way down, drove off it in single file like so many obedient sheep, oblivious to what might befall us. Ramming down the accelerator – we were advised to go fast – my stomach dropped as my heart leapt. Stopping just before I rear-ended the guy in front of me, I could hardly wait to do it again.
Atop another scarily steep dune, the cobalt-blue waters of 32 kilometre-long Stockton Beach on the horizon, we were handed sandboards and invited to slide down. A guy who suggested he was pretty much a pro-skateboarder, wanted to stand but was told that doing so could knock a shoulder out of joint so he agreed to go down on his butt like the rest of us. This too was a rush and, like that first first steep descent, left me craving more. It was certainly well worth conquering my fears of hospitalisation by quad bike for.
Our guide, of Worimi heritage, explained how his ancestors traditionally lived off the land, feasting on the abundant seafood, which includes lobster and prawns, and sourcing fresh water from a river that flows beneath the sand. Weatherbeaten skeletons of ancient burial grounds dot the landscape and, while dune-bashing past sacred sites doesn’t sound like a good idea, the guides are well versed in steering clear.
My travel companion Anne-Marie and I had arrived on Virgin Australia’s inaugural direct flight from Auckland to Newcastle a couple of days earlier, and while raging bushfires had caused the closure of the road to Port Stephens on our first day, forcing our local guide Georgia to rejig our itinerary, it was – as they say in this neck of the eucalyptus woods – no drama. There are far worse travel dilemmas than being ‘‘forced’’ to spend a day in Hunter Valley, one of the oldest wine regions in Australia.
About an hour’s drive north of Newcastle and 31⁄2 hours from Sydney, Hunter Valley is surely where Dionysus, that Greek god of wine and other Earthly pleasures, would shack up if he were to visit. As well as more than 150 wineries, some dating to the 1830s, there are craft breweries, distilleries, cheese and chocolate shops, and restaurants doing pretty innovative stuff with the cornucopia of local seafood, meat and produce.
Staying at Spicers Guesthouse in Pokolbin, the beating heart of the lower Hunter Valley, a winetasting or few was all but obligatory.
Settling in at The Vault tasting room in a flower-filled garden at the nearby Pepper Tree vineyard, we worked our way through a selection that made it clear why the place is among the most awarded boutique wineries in Australia.
To my untrained palate, the bubbly wasn’t too dissimilar to the only sparkling wines allowed to be labelled Champagne, and the lemon sherbetaccented semillon (a special varietal of the region) and rum-spiked sherry went down a treat. If it hadn’t been 11am, I could certainly have been persuaded to order a full glass of at least one. For Georgia and me, it was the Claude shiraz that had the edge and, while not ordinarily inclined to drop $50 on a bottle of wine, we each left with one.
Part way through another tasting at recently revitalised Ben Ean, Georgia reminded us we probably shouldn’t have too much before doing a ‘‘hot lap’’ at the Newcastle 500 race track that afternoon, and we headed to the on-site restaurant, Baume.
More or less told that even the starters are enough to satiate the appetite of a giant, we opted to share three. The prawn-stuffed saganaki with woodfired tomatoes and feta, calamari rings with citrus aioli, and smoked ham and pea arancini were so tasty that I was happy to stretch my belly to accommodate them. The others, however, wisely stopped when they were full.
In town over the weekend of the annual Newcastle 500 V8 Supercars championship, we knew we had to check it out – if only because so many of our (mostly male) friends and family members were insanely jealous we had the opportunity.
Anne-Marie and I were set to do hot laps and, upon arrival, learned we’d been paired with Kiwi pro racer Richie Stanaway. Not knowing what to expect, I was pretty relaxed until, kitted out in jumpsuit and helmet, I was strapped into the passenger seat of his Ford FG X Falcon and he put his foot to the floor.
The next couple of minutes (we did two laps) passed in a high-octane, hard-braking, body-shaking, silent scream-inducing blur. It was like a rollercoaster ride, thankfully minus the upsidedown bits. I have no idea how the drivers remain calm and in control.
Asked how it was when back to the pits, I was so stunned all I could manage was ‘‘amazing’’. A woman next to me went with ‘‘better than sex’’. Anne-Marie looked like she was about to vomit. We returned to the track on the third and final day of the race, where we were lucky enough to have a table in Virgin Australia’s Paddock Club, an air-conditioned haven from the hot mess below with a generous, seafood-heavy buffet and copious quantities of booze, although it didn’t take long for the Veuve to run dry.
The view of the track and harbour beyond was pretty sweet too, and even for non-petol-heads like ourselves, the race was a thrill. Cars bumped up against the walls and each other like dodgems, sometimes crashing spectacularly but thankfully as far as I’m aware, no one was injured. The only unpleasant surprise was the noise – I’d underestimated the roar of dozens of V8 engines revving – but it was nothing a 50 cent pair of earplugs couldn’t fix.
Sadly, we had to leave before the end and, high on adrenaline and the smell of burned rubber, I half wondered whether I should recheck the programme for the single drivers in the vain hope it would lead to getting to do hot laps on a semiregular basis.
As for whether the experience – and broader weekend in NSW – was better than sex, I’d prefer not to comment publicly. Let’s just say that all three of us left feeling very satisfied.
And for the record, Kiwi Scott McLaughlin won the championship.
The writer travelled courtesy of Virgin Australia and Destination NSW.