A day
in July 2013
Reaching out in the
shower I realise it won’t be long before the wonderful handmade lemongrass soap
has gone and with it the final tangible trace of our holiday. This makes me sad
and I want to keep remembering those days in the moment, not as the rehearsed
stories that must be told to others.
21 March
I wake feeling lucid and
in suspense for how the day will turn out. A few chores online, the suitcase
re-packed and the motel door opens into warmth and light. The scene is cheap and
bright, not dingy and grey like a motel would be back in the UK, making its
guests feel despondent. I look up at the sun, feel the rising vapour, faint at
first but then remembering the unmistakeable smell of Australia. It is
like a homecoming. Back on Australian soil for the first time in seventeen
years.
We meet around midday, me
with my hippy hair and you with your can’t care less bare feet. It soon feels like
we were never parted, although we turn to one another and high five a few times
in the first hours on the road. Slightly apprehensive and concentrating hard, I
drive and you navigate us through suburbs and cityscape, traffic lights,
junctions, left, right and left again, then we hit the M1.
Oh oh the ocean. We
arrive at our first campsite in, fittingly, Anderson Bay, Inverloch. This is
for families, just off season and waiting for the final big spend of Easter to
fill up the cafes and shops. We find the beach, walk and adjust to one
another, finding a rhythm, shakily at first then nice and easy. A lacklustre
meal and some beer do no more than their job and we trot back for the first
night in the van, where my latent fears come to the fore as you tell me about a
spider not big but hiding exactly according to the cliché , what you find here
when you go for a wee.
22
March
The next day we are eager
to get on to the open road, both of us yearning to savour the otherness. But we
are mildly disappointed, climbing and falling through the surreal landscape of muddy
English fields set down among sparse traces of ancient Bush. Are we in the
right country - the country of brittle and burn, of dust and crackle? The road
is serpentine but the last thought we have in this damp and mist is of snakes.
Over rivers and railtrack, across
creeks Reedy, Muddy and O’Flyn’s; Middy’s Swamp.
Lakes Entrance does not entrance.
Our reception at the floating seafood
restaurant is hostile and we feel that we don’t fit here.
“Have you booked? Oh.
Well we are fully booked completely booked in fact over booked. **sigh**
But if you mean right now and you won’t stay long we will let you sit in
the corner.”
“Take them to 23 it’s a
re-lay it’s a re-lay.”
We don’t overstay our
welcome and on the way back call in at a pub where locals meet, hardly aware of
the town’s visitors. Big horses on screens in the wall tell them if they have
won; pokies next door for consolation. Weary couples, wary girls trying to be
daring, wearing haloha garlands to show they are having fun on a hen night.
A couple of beers later,
we are so tired! And we still haven’t eaten bugs.
23
March
Early morning we forego
breakfast and get back to the road. The sun hot already, climbing above the
branches. Deep into the magnificent forest we coast the magnitude of the
mountains on foothills, rising and falling. It is bright, hot and breezy and so
are we. The map shows us the Snowy River and the Great Dividing Range.
On a whim we pull off to
ride the Grandview Road and immediately see an echidna crossing in front of us,
which is entrancing. Then, some
isolated dwellings, a safe place to park and a dinky-di Aussie in a bush hat.
“May we.....?”
“Yeah. Where you from?”
“England”
“So’m I! Whereabouts?”
“Surrey”
“Me too”
“You come right back I’ve
got the billy on”. And that is our introduction to Pioneer Roger and the Outlaw
Wayne. They press us to stay but we have to push on, taking sweet lemonade
lemons in our hands and stories on our tongues.
The afternoon is stunning
as the glittering forest flashes left and right, giving way to dust and rock.
We stop to watch a wombat feeding, unconcerned on the roadside. Late lunch in a
sleepy town with a few craft stalls and baker’s shop, with the sun arcing
lower.
24
March
In Eden the birds sing
paradise in the evening peace. We try Canasta. Early in the morning the volume
of birdsong is startling and the only person awake apart from me is a lovely
bush ranger doing his checks and cleaning before the campers wake.
Later we pull off the
highway at Berry. Very bohemian so we buy hippie hats to remember it and share
huge plates of food with the flies. Back on the road we are discouraged from
throwing litter with the banner: “Don’t be a tosser.” Public service Aussie
style.
25
March
Bateman’s Bay is spectacular
and surrounded by enchanting places - Mooney Mooney Creek, Beauty Point,
Waterfall. Pressing on to Botany Bay where we don’t find any reference to
Captain Cook’s first landing of HMS Endeavour in 1770. We are amazed to find a campsite in such a
built up area. It is cramped and we spot our first cockroaches.
Kind bus drivers, fast
train rides, hard pavement. Feeling tired we turn a corner and have our first
sight of the harbour, the bridge, the opera house. We are smitten. On the way home we stop for a beer
and a bored barman makes us a free molecular cocktail, Cointreau caviar that
explodes in the mouth. We are there till dusk the next day, walking the bridge
at the end.
Driving out of Sydney
through the northern suburbs is our first encounter with narrow roads and it is
a relief to get back on to the Pacific Highway.
27
March
At Port Stephens we ride
up and down the peninsula road, u-turning to catch the Anna cemetery, free range
eggs for sale, the winery and Murray's brewery, tasting Sauvignon Blanc and
Angryman pale ale.
The site has no space for
a camper van, but we are happy to get a slab of concrete in between the cabins,
where kids ride manic scooters and parents drink loudly. The old man next to us
tells of the days when koalas were here. Now we are content to watch as his
wife feeds kookaburras from her hands. Omelette, wine and beer for supper and I
am loquacious.
28
March
Next day we are pulling
off the Pacific Highway to make lunch of tuna and eggs salad with flatbread.
Finishing the chutney we agree it wasn’t good - more like mild salsa. Cracking
on, this is the day we listen to Chopin as the majesty unfolds. Then Monster.
Then Nashville Skyline.
Look, a Koala park. Shall
we? Yes No. It is Good Friday and there are no shops or cafes open. After
searching we decide yes to the koala park and what a good move that turns out
to be as we stroke a koala, coax a wallaby and say Hello Howryagoing with a
parrot – all on a half price ticket - Happy Easter.
At the service station
minimart I lay in some emergency “So Aussie” supplies - sliced bread, vegemite,
crackers, chips, Cherry Ripe, beer. This is the evening we are forced to eat
KFC. Birds and more birds, squabbling, screeching, chattering, whistling
We have traversed creeks Lemon Tree,
Ferny, Fernbank, Humpty Back.
29
March
At Port Maquarie we
remark that it is a country of such great contrasts, all seeming to coagulate
as one Australia. Except for the one really big contrast. We are remembering the
man on the train in Sydney who looked like he belonged less than all the
oriental faces - his being the dark squashy nosed visage of a native.
On we go, over Coolongolook Creek and
Dead Mans Gully.
A few hours in South West
Rocks, where at the craft market we buy local avoes and star fruit. A funny man
is singing about pate foie gras as burnt duck liver on toast, he is called the backyard
crooner. It’s quite middle class despite him. We buy books (“three good choices”
says the stall holder in a surprised voice) and hand made soap.
At the butcher’s we buy the
local beef. Then pull off road for local fish and seafood. We’re back on the Pacific
Highway and at the veggie shack there are fresh plums and pears for the
drive. Beans, chokoes (are they gourds?) garlic for the prawns. Our soundtrack
is Nina Simone, Queen. More REM.
30
March
We see a lizard near the
creek as we take coffee on the waterfront. Boys are fishing, a family is
rowing. Ladies lunch. Later in a grog shop you tell me about clean skin wine
and I snaffle a bargain bottle. We get some fat yak beer – “hairy but
approachable”.
This is the banana coast –
we know because of the giant bananas, which they are very proud of. We leave Coffs
Harbour and head inland. Grafton is intriguing - all old weatherboard houses. An
amazing bridge and viaduct. It looks like the fifties. Skippy could have lived here.
31
March
We are in the mountains,
with ramshackle houses that almost look like poverty, neglected and decaying.
At an isolated roadside cafe you ask “do you sell coffee” and they kind of get
the joke. This day it rains, real stuff, hard and cool.
Climbing serpentine roads
reveal sudden vistas, emerging peaks. We stop to photograph Nimbin Rock. This
is the worst road we have driven on, but the potholes are helpfully accentuated
by brightly painted snakes and turtles. We swing into Nimbin - Rishikesh in Australia.
The shop owners wispy haired and grizzled among the tie dye, batik and joss
sticks. Sixties hippiedom like a time capsule.
“Will ya be wanting any
weed while yus here.” Not much alcohol. Lots of dope. Nimbin feels like a community.
Slogans and aphorisms on ancient campervans say things like "dont let your
mouth get your ass in trouble"
At dusk there are flocks
of cockatoos, swooping and swifting up the valley and swarming over the
mountain tops.
1
April
So we leave the wonderful
mountains. Watch an eagle huge in the sky. Buy local produce and eat fruit for
breakfast. On to the M1 with the Gold Coast running parallel, high rise and theme
parks to our right. Through the suburbs, into the city.
Brisbane. About 20,000
kilometres later. It’s over, it was a gas. It was the best ever.
The final creeks were Deep,
Sandy, Stoney, Pebbly.
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