Sydney to Yorkey’s Knob on Queen Anne 2025 world Cruise

Posted by parkers travels March 15, 2025

Sydney to Yorkey’s Knob on Queen Anne 2025 world Cruise

Photos will arrive once internet is stronger

A Sydney Sojourn: Chaos, Cockatoos, and Serendipitous Security Guards

By Parker “Sunburned Brit” McTravel

Sydney. City of sparkling harbours, operatic architecture, and disembarkation procedures that could double as a Hunger Games audition. Let me set the scene: imagine 2,000 cruise passengers, all convinced they’re the protagonist of this holiday, attempting to flee the Queen Anne like rats escaping a sinking ship (dramatic, but accurate). The queue stretched longer than the Harbour Bridge, with self-disembarkers, tour groups, and “I just want a flat white” walkers colliding in a volcanic blend of impatience. To add insult to injury, the ship’s crew chose this moment to practice their emergency drill over the tannoy. “This is only a test,” they chirped, as a rogue suitcase torpedoed my shin. Twenty minutes later, we escaped the carnage—only to realise we’d forgotten to pack our dignity.

Post-battle, we limped to Ken Dome (not a Transformers villain, disappointingly). Here, Judith—ever the frugal heroine—sniffed out a 2025 calendar. A saintly assistant rummaged through drawers like a squirrel on espresso, unearthing a sealed edition. “Free gratis!” she beamed. Judith, now clutching her paper treasure like Gollum with the One Ring, declared this the pinnacle of her trip. Take that, Opera House!

Alas, triumph was short-lived. Returning to the ship, we were met with a cheery: “Come back at 2pm, loves.” Ah, the maritime version of “computer says no.” Cue two hours loitering like suspicious seagulls.

Next: Phil’s Foot, Once a humble bbq themed eatery, now a très chicFrench bistro with prices to match. But the real drama was next door: a boutique where silk jackets cost more than my car. The cheapest? A cool $4,000. The assistant, sensing our peasant energy, hit us with: “Elton John once gave them a blank cheque and bought the entire shop”, Naturally. We nodded sagely, as if we, too, had once emptied a boutique via royal decree. (Sidebar: Elton’s 1987 Sydney gig was iconic, a privilege to attend. His Melbourne show? Cancelled. Coincidence? I think not. He was trying on his new wardrobe.

Oh, and Michael Portillo buys his trousers here. “Of course he does”.

Fueled by croissants and existential dread, we downloaded - Culture Walks - an app promising “Yananurala Harbour Walk: Stories, Memories, Histories!” Translation: “You’ll sweat through your socks.” The Botanical Gardens were stunning—if you enjoy floral beauty paired with surface-of-the-sun heat. We shuffled between eucalyptus shadows, sniffing blooms so fragrant they should’ve come with a sobriety warning. A butterfly the size of a dinner plate flitted past, photobombing us with the elegance of a supermodel. “Smile!” I hissed. It did not.

A text interrupted our melt-a-thon: pals Jill and Chris were en route to Perth, having survived the Queen Anne from San Fran. “Wish they’d stayed,“ I muttered, as an ibis stalked past, judging me with the intensity of a MasterChef critic.

Seeking respite, we dove into the Bells Hotel—a pub where tattooed bikers and salty dockworkers nursed beers under TVs blaring all the sports. No one cared. The chatter was pure Aussie poetry: “Nah, mate, I told ‘im to rack off…” We hydrated, then stumbled upon the Art Gallery’s star attraction: a security guard from Huddersfield , Yorkshire’s finest, exporting sarcasm since 1828. He’d fled for Sydney 12 years ago, swapped his flat cap for sunscreen, and now dished life stories between shifts. “Got a new missus now,” he winked. Classic.

We ended at “The Republic”, where “happy hour” is code for “Brits abroad, assemble!” Friends materialised, as they do, and we clinked glasses with Leeds finest—because of course you can’t escape Northerners, even in Sydney.

As the sun dipped, painting the Harbour Bridge gold, I reflected: Sydney’s magic isn’t just in its sights. It’s in the chaos, the cockatoos, and the security guards with backstories juicier than a Bondi soap opera.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a date with a $4,000 jacket… and a GoFundMe page.

Parkers Pro Tip: Never disembark without knee pads. Or a sherpa.

Sydney Day Two: A Sweaty Stroll Through History, Oysters, and Near-Death Encounters with Lycra-Clad Fitness Fanatics

Day two dawned with the sort of heat that makes even sunscreen surrender. A balmy 32°C at 7 a.m. - because why ease into the day like civilised people when you can plunge directly into a sauna? The ship had finally quietened after the previous day’s exodus of sunburned Brits and the arrival of fresh, wide-eyed “newbies” (bless them, still clutching their maps upside-down). Tranquility reigned. Or at least, it did until I remembered I’d downloaded an app for a “relaxing” walking tour. Spoiler: relaxing is Aussie for “you’ll sweat through your socks.”

Circular Quay: Where Ferries Flit and Marathoners Flex

First stop: Circular Quay, Sydney’s aquatic Grand Central Station. Ferries zipped off to Manly, Taronga Zoo, and Watson’s Bay like over-zealous water beetles. But the real spectacle? The marathon runners. Legions of Adonises, glistening like Greek statues, pounding the boardwalk in this heat. Meanwhile, I was already considering a nap in the shade of a palm tree. Respect.

Warrane | Sydney Cove: A Stream, a Colony, and a Very Thirsty British Decision

Our first historical pitstop: the Tank Stream. This trickle of freshwater was the reason the British, in their infinite colonial wisdom, decided to set up shop here in 1788. One imagines the conversation: “Bit hot, isn’t it?” “Yes, but look—hydration!” Priorities sorted. The Eora people had thrived here for millennia; the Brits lasted approximately two summers before inventing the pith helmet.

Dawes Point: Where Astronomy Met Awkward Small Talk

Next, a saunter north to Tara (Dawes Point). Here, Lieutenant William Dawes once chatted with Patyegarang, an Eora woman, in 1788. Dawes, an astronomer, probably gazed at the stars to avoid making eye contact during their language lessons. “So… do you come here often?” The remnants of his observatory are now dwarfed by the Harbour Bridge—a hulking metal beast that looms overhead. Another time.

Speaking of which: the Harbour Bridge climb, “You haven’t seen Sydney until you’ve stood 134 metres on top!” they say. I declined. Why? Three reasons: 1) My fear of heights, 2) My aversion to wearing overalls on holiday, and 3) A prior commitment to breathing normally. Instead, I admired the lunatics scaling it from below, clinging to the girders like stick insects on steroids.

Under the bridge, we passed the Marriott Pier One, its oyster bar taunting us. Too early for molluscs, we agreed, though we’d booked a dozen for dinner aboard the Queen Anne. Because why not double down on seafood? Live dangerously, as they say.

Pier 2 hosted a tragicomedy of young anglers. Each had a tub of bait (“chopped fish of varying sizes”—a mystery mush) and precisely zero fish. Lines tangled, phones buzzed, and the air smelled like regret. Yet, they chatted cheerfully—proof that millennials can turn anything into a group chat.

Piers 3 offered a smorgasbord of gentrification. At Pier 3, swanky apartments boasted private boat ramps (because storing your yacht at home is so modern day living). Cafés overflowed with lycra-clad joggers sipping flat whites—Sydney’s answer to a balanced breakfast.

Then, a dance studio. A troupe of lithe women pirouetted in a space smaller than my cabin. How they avoided mid-air collisions is a mystery rivaling the Bermuda Triangle.

Finally, Barangaroo Reserve—a place where Eora women once fished from nawi canoes, and 19th-century wharf’s birthed Sydney’s maritime explorers. Now, it’s all sandstone sea walls and Instagrammers. As I dodged kamikaze cyclists. I pondered the progress: from spearfishing to soy lattes.

Epilogue: Survival

By day’s end, I’d navigated historic piers, avoided death-by-bicycle, and marvelled at humanity’s ability to jog in a furnace. As the sun dipped, I retreated to the ship, where chilled oysters awaited. Because if there’s one lesson Sydney teaches, it’s this: when life gives you 32°C heat, demand champagne.

Cheers from the Queen Anne—where the only climbing involves getting into bed.

Sydney – our sun-soaked farewell, where the only tempest was the regret of leaving the harbour baristas. Little did we know, Mother Nature had other plans?

Since leaving, our days have been dominated by the hypnotic swirl of Cyclone Alfred on the Windy app, a digital maelstrom that has become our constant companion. The cyclone, a whirling dervish of meteorological fury, is barrelling towards the east coast of Australia, with Brisbane squarely in its crosshairs. More importantly, it’s also squarely in the path of our ship, which has turned our leisurely voyage into something resembling a high-stakes game of maritime dodgeball.

Now, you might be wondering, as I did, what exactly is the difference between a cyclone, a typhoon, and a hurricane? The answer, it turns out, is delightfully simple: it’s all about location. Call it a cyclone if you’re in the South Pacific or Indian Ocean, a typhoon if you’re in the Northwest Pacific, and a hurricane if you’re in the Atlantic or Northeast Pacific. It’s the same beast, just wearing different hats depending on where it’s causing chaos.

Cyclone Alfred, however, is not just any beast. It’s a roaring, frothing, steam-powered monster currently thundering towards Brisbane at an alarming speed, gathering strength and velocity as it goes. The signs of its approach are unmistakable. The air is thick and soupy, the kind of heat that makes you feel like you’re wearing a wet blanket. The wind has picked up, whistling through the ship’s rigging with a mischievous glee, and the waves—oh, the waves—are now towering at a formidable 5 metres, slamming into the hull with the enthusiasm of a drunken percussionist.

The passengers, meanwhile, are beginning to resemble a scene from a low-budget zombie film. Faces are tinged with green, hands clutch railings with white-knuckled determination, and the occasional sick bag makes an appearance. It’s a symphony of discomfort, punctuated by the occasional groan or muttered prayer.

Then, the captain’s voice comes over the tannoy, a deep, growl that could easily double as the voice of a Bond villain. She apologises for the inconvenience, yet it’s not her fault, but Brisbane is off the table. The port is closed, and we’re now aiming to skirt under the storm surge and make for Airlie Beach instead.

A collective groan ripples through the ship. Brisbane was a key stop for many passengers, a gateway to flights, family, and long-awaited plans. The air is suddenly thick with the sound of frantic phone calls, as stressed travellers attempt to rebook flights, rearrange itineraries, and generally salvage what they can from the chaos. The ship’s Wi-Fi, already temperamental at the best of times, buckles under the strain, dropping signals with the regularity of a caffeinated jackhammer.

Meanwhile, the entertainment team is in overdrive, scrambling to fill the unexpected extra day at sea with fresh distractions. Musicians are hastily rehearsing, speakers are dusting off old presentations, and the dance instructors—who were supposed to disembark in Brisbane—are now doing an impromptu jig in the corner, presumably to keep their spirits up.

For seasoned travellers like us, this is all part of the adventure. The sea, after all, is a fickle mistress, and you have to go with the flow—or in this case, the cyclone. There’s a certain thrill in watching the storm from the safety of the ship, knowing that while the world outside is in turmoil, we’re cocooned in our floating haven of buffets, bingo, and bad karaoke.

And let’s not forget the silver lining: cruise insurance. For every missed port, we’re due a refund of £150 each—£300 per cabin. It’s a small consolation, but it takes the sting out of the disappointment. Brisbane, after all, is a city we’ve visited many times before, and while we’ll miss seeing friends and family, there’s always the promise of a return trip.

As the ship rocks and rolls, creaking and groaning like an old wooden floorboard, I find myself reflecting on how far we’ve come—not just on this voyage, but in life. My father, for instance, struggled for years with a prosthetic leg that never quite fit right. These days, the technology is nothing short of miraculous. The other day we watched an elderly lady sprint up a volcano in New Zealand with an artificial limb, a feat that left us both awestruck and slightly out of breath just from watching.

Sleep, when it comes, is instant. The ship’s rhythmic rocking, combined with the symphony of creaks and bangs, is oddly soothing. At my age, I often wake at 4 a.m., my mind buzzing with thoughts and half-formed ideas. I’ve tried every relaxation technique under the sun—counting sheep, reciting the alphabet backwards, meditation tapes—but nothing works quite as well as simply letting the thoughts wash over me like waves.

Morning brings a familiar routine: an early stroll around the promenade deck, a few miles to shake off the stiffness, and then back to the cabin to brew a strong cup of coffee. Judith, my ever-patient wife, is not a morning person. In fact, she’s not really a night person either. Her peak hours fall somewhere between noon and 6 p.m., a window of productivity that we’ve learned to work around. A strong cup of coffee usually does the trick, and we’re soon ready for a leisurely breakfast, perhaps in the wellness café, followed by a session of tai chi to loosen up the joints—a habit we picked up on our world cruise back in 2020.

So, as Cyclone Alfred continues its rampage and our ship charts a new course, we’re reminded once again of the joys and unpredictability of travel. It’s not always smooth sailing, but then again, where’s the fun in that? – and if all else fails, there’s always the £300. Now, where’s my Tequila Sunrise

“Sunburned Spectacles and Colonial Curiosities: A Tropical Trek with Captain Cook’s Ghost”

Ah, the Whitsunday Islands—a place so absurdly idyllic that even the seagulls adopt a smug, self-satisfied waddle, as if they’ve stumbled upon the avian equivalent of a five-star resort. But farewell, Airlie Beach, with your sands so pristine they could make a Kardashian blush. We’re aboard the Queen Anne, bound for Yorkeys Knob, Queensland. The sea? A mill pond on Valium. The temperature? A cheeky 35°C at 7:30 a.m., because Australia’s sun doesn’t merely rise—it slaps you in the face with a frying pan and cackles.

Now, Yorkeys Knob, One might assume the name was dreamt up by Captain James Cook after a particularly rowy night with his crew—a man who mapped Australia’s east coast with the meticulousness of a maniac wielding a sextant. Cook, that intrepid explorer and part-time astronomy nerd, had a penchant for naming landmarks after his sailors. Port Jackson, Cape Tribulation... all very dignified. So naturally, I pictured “Yorkeys Knob” as a tribute to some Yorkshire lad condemned to eternal ignominy—perhaps the ship’s designated whinger or biscuit-taster.

Alas, Google—the modern-day oracle—informs me it’s named for George Lawson, a Yorkshire-born fisherman nicknamed “Yorkey.” Less swashbuckling, but then, history is rarely as glamorous as we’d like. Speaking of Cook, he’s a divisive figure here. Yes, his cartographic genius is undeniable (mapping Australia’s coast in 1770 with tools that’d make a Boy Scout weep), but his arrival also kickstarted British colonialism—a chapter marked by violence, disease, and displacement for Indigenous Australians. Though, to be fair, Cook was just following orders. The real villains were the empire-builders back in Blighty, sipping Earl Grey and plotting conquests while Cook dodged coral reefs and sketched star charts.

Ah, those star charts! Cook’s voyages were less Pirates of the Caribbean and more CSI: Pacific. He named Mercury Bay in New Zealand after observing Mercury’s transit, and his ship, the Endeavour, doubled as a floating lab crammed with botanists, artists, and enough enthusiasm to document every leaf and loincloth they encountered. It was Star Trek with more scurvy and fewer phasers. “To boldly go where no man has gone before”—and promptly claim it for King George III.

But let’s return to the present. Our arrival at Yorkeys Knob was blissfully uneventful—two tenders ferried passengers ashore by 8:30 a.m., a far cry from the previous day’s chaos in Airlie Beach, where medical emergencies had turned disembarkation into a scene from Lord of the Flies. Today, the crowd was all sunhats and sunscreen, eager to explore Cairns: snorkel the Great Barrier Reef, ride the Kuranda Railway, or simply marvel at how Australians pronounce “herbs” without the “h.”

Our Canadian compatriot, Denise—a woman who treats pre-dawn hours like a personal challenge—snagged the first shuttle to Cairns’ esplanade pool, where she swam laps with the vigour of an Olympic hopeful. Admirable, really. Meanwhile, my partner and I lounged poolside aboard the Queen Anne, basking in the ship’s sudden emptiness. We’ve haunted these parts since the ’80s, when the reefs were Technicolor and backpackers didn’t Instagram their avocado toast. Once, we spent three months meandering up the coast, tents strapped to our backs like particularly unfashionable tortoises. Youth! It’s like sunscreen: you don’t appreciate it until you’re lobster-red and weeping.

The poolside scene was its own theatre of human absurdity. The sun, it seems, emboldens people to sartorial choices best described as “optimistic.” Take the gentleman in budgie smugglers—Australia’s answer to the speedo—clinging to his dignity like a koala to a eucalyptus. Or the woman whose bikini defied both gravity and logic, creating a midriff panorama that evoked the Scottish Highlands. It was a carnival of flesh, a reminder that swimwear is a privilege, not a right.

As we sailed past the Whitsundays’ scarred peaks and Dalmatian-spotted hills, the silence was broken only by waves lapping the hull. The islands loomed like ancient sentinels, their ridges stripped bare by winds that’d make a hairdryer blush. We passed Cape Melville, where Cyclone Mahina once unleashed a storm surge so violent it wiped entire settlements off the map in 1899. Today, it’s tranquil—a stark contrast to Brisbane’s cyclone-ravaged coast, 1,000 km south.

And then there’s me: the “SPF Kid,” slathered in Factor 50 until I resemble a half-peeled zebra. While fellow passengers bronzed like rotisserie chickens, I lurked in the shade, a vampire in flip-flops.

So here we are: sunburned, slightly wiser, and endlessly amused. From Cook’s colonial baggage to Yorkeys Knob’s humble fisherman, Australia serves up history with a side of absurdity. And as the Queen Anne glides on, I can’t help but wonder—what’s next? A koala in a top hat? A kangaroo court? In this land of extremes, anything’s possible.

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Footnotes & Follies:

- Cyclone Mahina: Deadliest in Aussie history, with a storm surge taller than a double-decker bus. The forests never recovered—nature’s version of a bad hangover.

- Budgie Smugglers: So named because the tight speedos appear to be “smuggling a budgerigar.” Use your imagination.

- SPF Kid- A title earned after realising my pallor could blind a passersby. When I undress, it’s like a reverse tan line Rorschach test.(ink blots to me and you)

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Parkers travels - the diary of the Parker's from Innellan, Scotland

Sydney to Yorkey’s Knob on Queen Anne 2025 world Cruise

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