May on the move

Sunday 1st May

As the new month has decided to rear it ugly head I have decided that I should combat its arrival with some sort of resolution. That is to say I am going to try adn quit smoking again. This does not relate to the events of the past few days and is merely the result of finding myself without any tobacco related products.
To return to the purpose of recounting my travels; I arrived in Wickham, the train station closest to my hostel, at around 7 in the evening, after having discovered on the train that the number I had for the hostel was, in fact, for use only on a landline. This meant that I was in the same position as when I arrived in Sydney; being that I had no way of contacting my hostel and no clue upon which street it even lay. I decided to trust what I like to think of as my innate sense of direction to guide me to my temporary abode, and feeling only minorly dispirited, journeyed forth in what I felt to be a southern-esque direction. After trying, and failing, to hail several taxis, I found myself outside a BP garage and decided that an innate sense of direction was a fine thing, but would provide accomodation for the night. So pride, coming as it did before a fall, put aside I asked the attendant at the BP for the name of the road and the number for a taxi. He wished me well and I emerged from the garage with a new sense of purpose and absolutely no trace of surprise at the fact that it had started raining. After a decent period of standing in the rain my taxi arrived and, fortunately, the driver knew where the hostel was located, thus rendering my complete lack of information a mere trifling nuisance. I arrived at the hostel only to be told by the owner that the BP station was in fact just around the corner and almost visible from the hostel. Score one for the innate sense of direction. Less points, however, on the side of being a wily traveller, as the cabbie charged me $10 for the completely unnecessary mystery tour he took me on en-route to the hostel.
The hostel seemed great, although the general population were all glued to the royal wedding on channel 7. Fortunately two English girls arrive shortly after I and we immediately excercised our right, as British nationals, to mercilessly mock the royal family. After that it was an early night as I had ambitions towards waves and the riding thereupon the next day.
I arose early, to glorious sunshine, and jumped on a computer to check the surf forecast for newcastle. The forecast looked hopeful, if a little out of my league, with predicted 3 meter waves. The serendipitous nature of my surfing plans seemed assured when my French roomate checked in, longboard in tow, and decided to join me for a surf, despite the fact the weather had taken a turn for the worse and, as I had become used to over the last week, proceeded to precipitate all over the place. Our hopes were, alas, all for nought as, after enquiring at reception about board hire, we were informed that the beaches had been closed as the waves were too dangerous. Downtrodden and downhearted we went for a smoke and chat and agreed that a movie would be the best remedy to this dissapointment. So Henri and I watched one of the obviously pirated films available at the hostel, after which I retired to bed for a read, only to wake up 4 hours later at 7pm.
That evening I joined the rest of the gang at the hostel in a game of pictionary and the customary consumtion of goon before falling away to my bed ready to journey the promise land of Port Macquarie, that my thirst for surfing be slaked.
I now reside upon the train, half way to Port Maquarie and short one towel, left hanging up by the pool. Fortunately it's microfibre counterpart yet resides in an auxilary pocket of my pack. On this note I shall leave you, dearest ones, to cogitate on what may lie ahead for this intrepid nomad, no longer inert.