I have a confession. When I first visited Brisbane in 1990, the plan was to spend a week exploring the Queensland capital. After two days I’d bolted. I dismissed the city as boring. I may even have likened Brisbane to a hot version of the UK’s Birmingham, with a few palm trees.
If someone had told me then that Brisbane would later become my home, I’d have laughed. The contrast in tempo from London, my then-hometown, probably fuelled my early indifference. But I just couldn’t understand why a place with such natural advantages seemed to turn its back on them.
The broad river was shunned – it was pre-South Bank (1992) – and despite the incredible climate there didn’t appear to be any alfresco cafés or dining to speak of. What
