You leave Sydney after brunch, the city’s glass-and-concrete hush thinning as the coach slides onto the Great Western Highway. The road climbs, eucalyptus oils scent the window air, and the city’s hum gives way to a hush that the Blue Mountains keeps for itself. By late afternoon the bus spills onto the Katoomba plateau and the valley opens: sheer sandstone cliffs, the Jamison Valley spreading like a carved map, and the Three Sisters sitting like weathered watchmen on the ridge. Kangaroos often pepper the roadside paddocks; they regard you with the slow curiosity of animals used to human schedules.