By Hubert Donovan

'Of course, you will see the Blue Mountains?' said Johnson, when he learned I was going to Sydney.

'Rather,’ I replied, ‘they are wonderful, I believe.'

'Marvellous!’ he said impressively. You people over here don't know what a mountain is. The Blue Mountains are mountains. And they are blue, a beautiful blue. It's the atmosphere: clear and bracing, like champagne.'

My friends in Sydney shared the same opinion about the Blue Mountains as Johnson. They seemed surprised when I told them we could spare only one day in which to see them. 'You'll need about a week to see them properly,' they said. 'Take a special note of their blueness. It's unique. And the atmosphere — it's like wine.' The booklets supplied by the Tourist Bureau were equally enthusiastic in their description of the scenic splendours of the mountains.

'Of course, we shall have to go,' said my wife. 'We simply can't return home without seeing them.’

The day we chose for the trip broke unpromisingly. There seemed to be a lack of co-operation between the Tourist Bureau and the weather, or, perhaps, the 'most equable climate in the world'— see guide books— was off duty. Anyway, instead of being a bright, spring day it was wet, very wet. The morning paper said the weather might clear. A ticket collector at the Central Station said the same thing, with less enthusiasm. A man we met on the train seemed quite sure about it.

'This is nothing,’ he said looking out of the window at the wet landscape. 'It's often raining down here when the sun is shining up in the mountains. Your first visit, eh? You'll never forget it.'

He was right. I never shall forget it. Never, as long— but to get on with the story. The weather showed no sign of clearing as the train sped westward. Every time I raised my eyes from my book, the rain seemed to be heavier. When we reached the foothills of the ranges, I put my head out of the window and looked in vain for that 'unique blueness' about which I had heard so much. Hill and valley, forest and clearing were dimmed by a grey mantle of rain.

‘Are these the Blue Mountains?' I inquired of the friendly fellow on the opposite seat.

 'Yes,' he said. 'But I thought they were blue,' I remarked.

He looked at me queerly. ‘You wait,’ he said. ‘We’ll get out of this rain a bit higher up.'

Again, he was right. We did leave the rain behind, but immediately after ran into a fog. It is possible to see something of a landscape in a rain storm, but I'm hanged if you can see it in a fog — at least, not in the sort of fog that enshrouded the mountains that morning. The higher we went the denser it became and the colder grew the air. We closed all the windows to keep out the 'bracing atmosphere.' Personally, I thought it seemed less like 'wine' than pea-soup.

At last we reached Katoomba. As far as appearances went, it might have been London in November, or any other place that is dark, damp and chilly, but the station signboard said it was 'Katoomba' so we alighted. After leaving the station we walked through the murk for about a quarter of a mile before we discovered that we were walking away from the town. Retracing our steps we crossed the railway line and presently found the main thoroughfare. The streets were crowded with people: ladies in hiking costumes, ladies in fur coats, gentlemen in plus fours, gentlemen in oilskins — but none of them seemed to be going anywhere in particular. With their faces pinched with the cold, they tramped aimlessly to and fro. I had never seen so many miserable-looking people.

It was plain that the sight-seeing business was at a standstill, and as there seemed nothing else for us to do, we joined the 'leaderless legion' tramping the streets. We had paraded the town about three times, when my wife indicated a restaurant. 'Let's go and. have something to eat,' she suggested. We turned our backs upon the fog-bound splendours of the mountains and passing through a glass swing-door, found ourselves in an atmosphere that was easy and cheerful. An electric 'fire' radiated warmth, table-tops and panelled walls shone under shaded lights, and an instrument on a shelf gave forth lively music. Seating ourselves, we ordered a grill. The price was high, but the result was worth it. We lingered over the meal, listening to music and news broadcast from Sydney.

A waitress cleared our table and learning that we required 'nothing more,' departed. I lit a cigarette. The fog outside showed no sign of thinning, and the faces of the people tramping past on the other side of the glass door looked just as hopeless. A quarter of an hour passed pleasantly.

'We ought to go out and see something. It seems a pity to waste time here,' my wife said half-heartedly.

I looked at the fog and at the cold, damp miserable beings outside and lit another cigarette. Another quarter of an hour slipped by. The waitress returned, brushed an imaginary crumb from the table with unnecessary vigour, and went away.

‘We can’t stay here any longer,’ protested my wife. 'We haven't seen a thing yet.'

 'The view from Echo Point is unsurpassed, I believe,' I remarked casually. There was no sign of enthusiasm on the other side of the table. 'There is a train leaving for Sydney in about ten minutes,' I went on. 'If you'd rather—‘

My wife snatched up her handbag, and rose.

'Let's hurry.' she said. 'We simply mustn't miss that train.’

I met Johnson shortly after my return to Perth. 

'What did you think of the Blue Mountains?’ he boomed.

'Never saw anything like 'em,' I replied.

'And the Jamieson Valley?'

'I can hardly describe it,' I said feelingly.

‘But they are blue. You noticed that?'

‘Yes distinctly blue. I noticed quite a lot of them up there.'

'Eh? A lot of what?'

'Blue noses. It's the cold. I suppose. Disgusting sight, though.' 

Johnson seemed a bit astonished, but recovering himself, he went on:

'But the Blue Mountains are a wonderful sight.’

'They must be,' I said 'Next time I'm in Sydney I'll run up and see them.'

So I will— provided the weather is fine.

The West Australian, 19 May 1934, page 4