My son invited me to visit for Christmas. Eager to avail of the opportunity to reacquaint myself with my now 10 month old granddaughter, I put aside my horror of the long flights involved, donned my granny hat and took to the skies

Perth in Western Australia gave me some glorious days of mid-twenties heat. I loved to drive along the gorgeous coastline enjoying the cool breezes from the brilliant blue sea dotted with surfers and sailors.

At Scarborough by the ocean we dined in open-air restaurants on succulent fresh crayfish and salads. The former, known here as lobster, is very affordable ‘down under’.

On Christmas morning the temperature was 38ºC but cooling relief came in mid-afternoon when thunderstorms lashed in from the ocean and lightning flashed in forks. Sitting on the decking, eating turkey and ham and swigging a very fine Coonawara Cabernet Sauvignon I was a happy camper amongst the locals’ moans at the pernickety weather.

On January 29th my son, his partner, their daughter and I flew to Sydney. Flying in over the city by daylight we had a sweeping view of Sydney Harbour, the famous Opera House seeming from high up to be dipping its white wings into the waters.

Sydney is generally cooler than Perth but the extremes I’d encountered back there now began to take their toll and finally on New Year’s Eve I went down with a severe virus.

I took to the bed but at 9pm managed to drag myself to the apartment’s fifth-floor balcony to catch a glimpse of the famous Sydney fireworks exploding high into the skies. Three days later I was up and ready to go again, albeit at a gentle pace. Having visited Sydney some years ago I’d already done the touristy things so could now devote my time to kith and kin.

Morgan, my granddaughter, and I began to get seriously acquainted. Initially, she was very wary. The first time her parents went away for a few hours, she crawled around the apartment weeping out her heartbreak over her seeming abandonment.

Gradually, grandmother and Morgan got used to each other. She loved to go out in her buggy and I cherished these times alone with her. She and I explored our Sydney neighbourhood of Surrey Hills. An old area, 15 minutes walk from the city, it was until recently down-at-heel and has now become popular with the trendy young things.

Its two main busy thoroughfares are interlinked with marvellously quiet tree-lined streets and cul-de-sacs claiming names such as Tudor Street, Withers Lane and Collins Avenue where the houses are bijou, balconied, terraced 2 storey charmers. New 7 to 9 story high apartment blocks house the ever-burgeoning yuppie population.

Behind a small park near our apartment, rose public housing apartment blocks of 14 storeys which were built in the mid 20th century and which still appeared solid and perky. Beryl, an 80 year old lady, whom I met in the Park, has lived in these apartments for 50 years. They were, she said, for a long time the highest buildings in Sydney. She, a Swede by origin, married an Irishman and though left to bring up her two daughters alone, she was still a bundle of energy and happy reminiscences.

Another local I spoke with claimed that the majority of houses in the area are now occupied by higher earners with just a few long-time dwellers remaining. Drug and alcohol-based crime is a big issue. The placement of formerly institutionalised people into the public housing high-rise flats makes for what he politely described as “incredibly bizarre conversations mainly monosyllabic, outside on the streets, in the very small hours of the mornings.”

Greek grandmammas and papas occupied the same benches in the park every day and I gathered from my futile attempts to communicate that they spoke little or no English. Smiles and oohs and ahhs at Morgan had to suffice.

The local population was doggie mad. The park resounded to the yelps of delirious dogs and their owners playing chase the ball. The humans were a colourful mix of old and young, hetero and homo, and the ever-present winos in their favourite corners under the shade.

People commented that the park was not safe, yet I found myself very at ease both there and in the whole locality and happy that doggie poohs were instantly removed by their owners.

Crown Street, the main thoroughfare in Surrey Hills, offered fantastic diversity in shops, cafes, restaurants and a small park with a children’s corner. Art deco in ceramics, fabrics, furnishings and woodturning was on offer in highly sophisticated old-world-charm premises, beautifully air-conditioned.

Specialty restaurants offered a variety of dining experiences, reflecting the multicultural society living in Surrey Hills. Breakfast in ‘Lemon’ was a delight and lunch in ‘Wood and Stone’ offered tasty wood-fired pizzas.

On my last night all three of us went to ‘YAI’, a spacious open fronted Thai restaurant. My eight king prawns, coated in coconut, fried and served on a bed of lettuce with a mild chilli sauce are still a mouth-watering memory. Equally satisfying dishes, three each, were had all round and the bill came light at a mere €60 for all. The majority of restaurants are BYO (bring your own wine), which tends to help both the pocket and the palate.

Morgan and I became good friends. Parting from my family was intensely sad. The 36 hours door-to-door return journey was arduous, but what a marvel it all is. Hopping into a great big machine and finding oneself at the other side of the world in the bosom of one’s family, new and old. I’m not complaining.

Above: Maggie with baby Morgan and, below, the rest of the family.