Guten tag, mein little schnitzels, und willkommen to Miss Heidi’s Austrian Teahouse! Zis is your favourite fräulein Günther von Bigs, here to enlighten you about Die Große Laterne. Ja, I think zat translates to ‘The Big Lantern’ in your wunderbar language.
Zis niedlich roadside attraction can be found out ze front of zis historic restaurant near Vienna. Nein, I mean Cooma – I always get zose zwei confused!
Miss Heidi serves a köstlich selection of pancakes, soups, cakes und other traditional Austrian dishes. I spent an enchanting evening cramming bratwurst into my insatiable gullet, und even took on a strudel so large it left me walking like a constipated nilpferd.
I didn’t even mind when ze chef burnt my schnitzel, as ze smell conjured fantastisch memories of my carefree days as a camp counsellor in schönes Mauthausen. Despite offering a range of activities including kayaking und rock climbing, ze campers rarely cracked a smile. Maybe it was because zey didn’t have a giant lantern to admire?
Auf wiedersehen, pets!
Bitte beachten Sie: Entschuldigung for not appearing in my lederhosen und Tirolerhut. I vas returning from die discotheque when my life partner Klaus took this spontaneous foto. Danke, my little currywurst!
Anglers love trawling the crystal clear waters of Adaminaby, a charming poplar-lined village nestled high in the Snowy Mountains. But it’s snow laughing matter when I say the main attraction is the Big Trout which, at 10 metres and 2.5 tonnes, is o-fish-ally the largest aquatic, craniate, gill-bearing animal in the tunaverse!
Living on prime eel estate in the i-gill-ic Lions Park in the centre of town, the Big Trout is reely easy to find, although you may have to bait in line for a photo as he’s so popular with his legion of fins. The quality of the craftsmanship is astonishing, with a plethora of details, so you won’t want to throw this one back!
You might call me main-stream for making this joke, but this tremendous Trout will take you hook, line and Big Thing-ker!
The fintastic fishtory of this troutstanding landmark
Leigh Stewart, a much-loved real estate agent and self-confessed Big Thing tragic, decided to build a massive fish during 1969’s summer of love, after a particularly successful afternoon on the lake. After taking a few years to mullet over, the cashed-up Snowy Mountains Authority were dorsal-ivating at the thought of funding Leigh’s dream.
With the money in the tank, Leigh had his niece knock up a rough sketch of the Big-to-be, which was apparently quite splendid for a five-year-old. He raced the doodles over to his mate Andy Momnici, a popular and handsome artist from Budapest, who was more than happy to tackle the project.
Working closely with the crayon-and-finger-paint blueprints, the Hungarian grabbed one of his more imprefish catches and froze it in an appropriate pose. He then cleared space at the Adaminaby Bowling Club and began the arduous task of sketching out a full-sized design that he cod work off.
Andy, a slave to perfection much like myself, didn’t sleep until he was finished, working seven days a week. Except on the second and fourth barra-Mondays of the month, when the CWA held their meetings and he had to get out, lest Ethel get all up in his gill again.
After an interminable hunt for a shed of the requisite proportions, Andy started the daunting task of building the Big Trout from steel, mesh and fibreglass. Wanting the fish’s scales to look as au-fin-tic as possible, he wrapped an extra layer of mesh around his plump rump, zapped it with an extra layer of fibreglass, then ripped it off to leave a pattern almost indistinguishable from the real deal.
Honestly, I caught an elderly gentleman trying to squeeze a slice of lemon onto the Trout’s tail and get stuck in with a knife and fork. After explaining the cultural and economical significance of the Big Trout to the kindly geezer, he told me off for ruining his lunch and kicked over a garbage bin on his way back to his car. There’s no pleasing some people.
I don’t know him from Adam
As we blazed out of Adaminaby astride my custom-built e-trike, the verdant hills melting around us, my travel partner/friendly neighbourhood alien Gordon Shumway squeezed me just a little bit tighter and leant in close.
“You know, that Adam was a pretty cool dude,” he yelled, as I expertly manoeuvred through a particularly tight corner. “Adam?” I asked. “I don’t recall meeting an Adam.”
“Yeah, the tall dude with the shiny pink-and-silver suit. Had a trout pout that would make a mackerel jealous, so maybe he had collagen injections. Anyway, I don’t want to cast aspersions. Ha! I kill me! Adam Inaby I think his name was.” “You mean the Big Trout?” I asked in astonishment. “His name is Adam Inaby?”
“Do you need your herring checked? That’s what I said,” Gordon sneered. “Anyway, Bigs, let’s stop for tuna quesadillas on the way home. I know a place in Cooma that will blow your socks off.”
And that, dear readers, is how the Big Trout became known as Adam Inaby.
Gimme fish head baby Gimme fish head like you did just last night Ah, ah, ah!
Even when Khancoban‘s a hundred degrees There you are smiling at me amongst the trees You stink in the sun, but are still fun With no body, you must be dead, are you dead? But I don’t care, I love you, Big Fish Head You’re a fish head You’re a fish head You’re a fish head
You have a swing beneath the bones of your back You let me hang there as I gobbled a snack You whisper sweet things, gimme greetings You are my bed, you are my bed But best of all, I love you, Big Fish Head You’re a fish head You’re a fish head You’re a fish head
So… Ah say you’ll never be crabbay Be lovely like the nearby Yabbay ’Cause I’ll come back to play another day!
Even when Khancoban’s a hundred degrees Each time we meet you are so eager to please You whisper sweet things, ’cos you’re a Big Thing Let’s go to bed, let’s go to bed! Because my dear, I love you, Big Fish Head You’re a fish head You’re a fish head You’re a fish head You’re a fish head You’re a fish head You’re a fish head The Big Fish Head
Batlow’s got a lovely bunch of apples There they are, all standing in a row Big ones, bigger ones, some as big as a shed Their enormous size draws tourists like flies That’s what Bigs Bardot said
They reckon Batlow is a town built on apples but, after a thorough investigation, I can reveal that most buildings are actually constructed upon concrete foundations. The locals do, however, go wild for a fresh honeycrisp.
Not only do Batlow’s farmers provide 10% of the country’s total crop (a fact repeated by far more than 10% of the Batlowians I encountered), but there are THREE Big Apples dotted around the picturesque village.
With only 1,313 residents, that’s one Big Apple per 437.666666667 Batlowians. I like those odds!
The most prominent is the original Big Apple, an assuming fellow who’s lived just north of town for the past four decades. He’s the size of a small house, but don’t think about going in for a cuddle, because he’s on private land and it’s not possible to get within 100 metres of him. Oh well, distance makes the heart grow fonder.
Until recently the Apple was barely visible through the flourishing orchards, but they’ve been thinned out in recent years due to fire, so it’s easy to see this scarlet scoundrel. Grab your binoculars and settle in for a big afternoon of apple-gazing!
The Appleman Cometh
Wilgro Orchard, a few hundred metres south, is home to a second Big Apple. Alright, it’s only half an apple pasted to a wall, but the owners are good people so I’ll give them a break. After snapping some memorable photos with this Apple, I popped inside for a dollop of Wilgrow’s famous apple chutney and a cheeky glass of their world-renowned cider. You know, just to make sure they’re fresh.
Halfway through my fifth can of the astonishingly good Batlow Road Cider, a funny little man with a bright red nose and a pronounced lisp wrapped his arms around me and introduced himself as The Appleman. His embrace lasted a little too long, but we were both appreciative of the human contact.
“Bigs,” he slurred, before taking more than a sip out of my can. “It was January 2020. The flames climbed to the heavens and the wind was hotter than hell. The orange nightmare raged towards Batlow, destroying everything in its path. Houses were lost. Memories were eaten by the flames. But the community came together and fought the fire, standing shoulder to shoulder to beat it back.
“We saved the Big Apples that day, my handsome friend. All three of them.” “And the rest of the village?” “I guess so,” shrugged the inebriate. “I only really cared about the Apples.”
The drunk’s story was so inspirational that I shared about 12 cans of cider with him as we discussed processes that could be implemented to prevent other Big Apples – such as the ones in Tallong, Yerrinbool, Acacia Ridge and Balhannah – falling victim to the folly of bushfire in the future. And whether a polar bear could beat a karate man in a fight.
Unfortunately I made the unforgivable faux pas of asking for a cup of pear cider.
“This is an apple town, Bigs,” The Appleman boomed as he threw me into the street. “Don’t you forget it!”
Core, Blimey!
Fortunately Gordon – who made it clear he wasn’t angered by my behaviour, just disappointed – was able to drive me to the third Apple, located a few hundred metres north of town. As he sat in the car calling those he’d wronged during his drunken years, I took a few happy snaps with what the locals call the redheaded stepchild of the Batlow Big Apples.
Created for annual Batlow CiderFest, this one’s pretty run down, discoloured, and is only half an apple. If I hadn’t been so drunk on good cider and great conversation, I may not have considered him a Big Thing at all. On the bright side, he’s the only one of the three positioned for a kiss and a cuddle.
I indulged myself in animated conversation with this Apple until Gordon – capricious as always – dragged me away and threw me in the boot of the car. It was for my own good, really.
Batlow’s Big Apples are shiny, sultry and seductive. But they’re also too much fun for one afternoon, and the sensory overload of encountering so many oversized fruits in such a short period of time will prove too much for all but the most cold-hearted party pooper.
My advice is to relax, give yourself plenty of time, and don’t head to Batlow if you’re traveling with a recovering alcoholic alien – they’ll only get in the way of a good time.
