KULGERA to YULARA (ULURU [AYERS ROCK])

After the excitement of the previous evening, the Prop was keen to get under way as early as possible -  and in any event before the "Dancing Deutschers" had a chance to locate him and again attempt to persuade him to "cut the rug a bit" in their lewd and inimitable style.

However, before departing, the Prop thought it prudent to check the level of hydraulic fluid in the Troll - just to make sure that the $10.00 repair effected in Coober Pedy the previous morning was holding fast.... Alas! You get (as they say) what you pay for, and in Coober Pedy $10.00 does not pay for that much.  It most certainly does not pay for adequately repairing a leak in the power steering! 

Still, things might have been much worse - it only required about 200ml of fluid to completely re-fill the reservoir, from which it could be inferred that the leak was slow and/or only occurred when the pressure in the system was at its maximum (e.g., when turning the wheels to full lock whilst stationary)

Power steering resevoir replenished and dancing German backpackers successfully avoided, we set off for Yulara.

The turnoff from the Stuart Highway on to the Lasseter Highway at Erldunda was heralded by a brief period of manic activity by the Prop's mobile telephone which, having come within range of a mobile telephone repeater for the first time in 48 hours, suddenly and very noisily, sprang to life.

Taking time to read the plethora of urgent messages informing the Prop of any number of unmissable bargains in the wine, camera, motor vehicle, underwear, power tool and marital aids (I wonder why I get those?) departments, the Prop cleared his inbox and his mind and set the Rig on course for Yulara - the very centre of the Earth and a mere 500km there and back.

(In fact, the Prop is reliably informed that the dead centre of Australia lies not in or around Uluru but over 100 km west at a remarkable geological feature known as Mt Conner (pictured).  Apart from its centrality to (and in) the Australian continent, Mt Conner is also notable for being regularly mis-identified by excited Japanese tourists as being Uluru itself.)

    Mount Conner - the geographical dead centre of Australia.  Sometimes mistaken for Uluru with a "flat-top".

On arrival at Uluru, the Prop sought out further (and importantly qualified) advice concerning "the power steering problem".  

   Uluru - a very big rock indeed.  Like an iceberg, more than 2/3rds of the rock is underground.  Of course, icebergs are not found in the desert - the bit of icebergs that you can't see is under the water - not under the ground.  In this respect (among many others) Uluru is quite unlike an iceberg.

Some way out of town and not that far from the communal "dump point" (For those who dont know what a "dump point is, just say it out loud and think about it.  The answer will almost certainly come to you.) lies the one and only mechanical repair shop in Yulara - indeed between Coober Pedy and Alice Springs, it would seem.     

After dealing with a group of indigenous motorists who had, unaccountably, lost most of the rear quarter or so of their station wagon somewhere down the track, Kurt (who was anything but curt) then turned his attention to another form of vehicle being driven by a small and very excited man.  This took quite a while as Kurt was unable to get the small man to accept that the fact that his vehicle had no brakes and one wheel missing made it ineligible for re-registration.  But as Kurt is the only man in town who can issue "pink slips" it really only ever was a matter of time.

Kurt then turned his attention to the Troll.  

Using massive quantities of degreaser and a large mop drenched in soapy water, Kurt washed away all trace of petrochemicals from under the bonnet before instructing the Prop to rotate the steering wheel this way and that.  At length, Kurt exclaimed that he had found the problem:  

"Your A- Frame's busted! Its gonna cost you a million bucks.... plus labour"     

As many readers may know, this is mechancical jargon meaning " You've got a pinhole leak in the high pressure hose.  I can't fix it here but I know a bloke in Alice Springs who can.  You'll be right to get to Alice as long as you keep it topped up with fluid."

This was not great news but, just as when one is suffering from a suite of apparently random sypmtoms one always feels better after they are given a name by a diagnosing doctor, so the Prop felt relieved to know what the problem was and that it could be fixed - at a price.

In retrospect, it may be that it was the comfort of this knowlegde which caused the Prop and Mrs P to drop their respective guards and which allowed then to fall into, what was by any measure, some very fast and loose company.  

As it happened a semi-professional troupe of itinerant mariachi musicians had arrived in Uluru that very same day.  

   Some of "Los Ess-Gees" a depraved band of fake mariachi musicians whose dissolute antics momentarily depraved the Prop and Mrs P. 

Plausible, charming and showing more aptitude for drinking than playing music, "Los Ess-Gees" (as they are semi-professionally known) invited the Prop and Mrs P into their depraved fold. 

Spellbound by their wicked, wicked ways, we quickly and completely fell into disolution.  Those of you who have seen "Wake in Fright" (d. Nicolas Roeg) will have some idea of the extent and rapidity of our descent into Hell (aka "the 'Yabba").  

Fortunately, we were abruptly brought to our senses when, at an al fresco desert diner, the enormity of "Los Ess-Gees" deception was exposed - none of them could play guitar and only the tall grey-haired one was able to say "Areeba, Areeba!" with anthing like a convincing Mexican accent.

   "Los Ess-Gees", exposed at last.  Dining al fresco in the desert and not an instrument in sight! Not musicians at all but a band of dissolute desperadoes!

    One of the unscrupulous "Ess-Gees" : note the ring of confidence!

   "Areeba, areeba!" Miguel (right) the ringleader of this band of mendacious mariachis. What IS he doing with his left hand? 

We were lucky to escape to Kings Canyon.......        

           

COOBER PEDY TO KULGERA

With the power steering fixed (well sort of) the Rig rolled out of Coober Pedy. Both the Prop and Mrs P were filled with a renewed optimism dampened only by the somewhat tragic events of the preceding day.  We realise that we never even knew his name.

Th Rig arrived at Kulgera Roadhouse about mid afternoon. 

Flies, flies and more flies.  

When the Prop politely pointed out to the manager of the establishment that there were too many flies the manager nonchalantly replied, 

"Is that so?  How many should we have?"

That evening, as the Prop dined in style at the Roadhouse on a legendary Kulgera Burger washed down with a couple of Coopers Stouts, his attention was grabbed by two female German backpackers - Gerda und Brünhilda by name.  It transpires that these frauleins were afficiondoes of Country & Western music and, in particular, of the ancient art of line dancing (Siegfried-Line dancing the Prop somewhat churlishly thought to himself). As the night progressed, their energetic exposition of the rustic Terpsichorean art became increasingly wanton, to the point where the Prop was constrained to intervene and call for a bit of decorum.  This act of attempted moderation did not go down well with the local culture-starved patrons or the Germanic gyrators, all of whom requested the Prop to depart (or words to that general effect).  

Discretion being the better part of valour, the Prop wisely decamped.

  Gerda and Brünhilda - the energetic line-dancing German backpackers.  Their erotic re-interpretation of Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart" had to be seen to be dis-believed. 

The campground at the Kulgera campground featuring an authentic picnic area. 

Pity about the flies!

                                Sunset at Kulgera - at last the flies go home!

Next - KULGERA to YULARA

MILDURA TO BURRA TO WOOMERA TO COOBER PEDY

As the title to this post implies, it has been some time since the Prop has condescended to slake his reader's (sic) thirst for for more details of the Journey to the Centre of the Earth.  This is deplorable, it is true, but when the reader has digested the full moment of what follows, he (or she) will say,

"Strewth! No wonder the Prop was unable to write of his travails. No man man could endure what he has and still blog" (or words to that general effect).

MILDURA TO BURRA

Westwards from Mildura on the A20 for a distance of about 110 klms and the State of Victoria mercifully comes to an end and the State of South Australia commences.  At Remarkable Renmark where the mighty Murray begins to head south, the Rig begins to head North, or, more precisely, in a general West North Westerly direction on the B64 thereby missing the opportunity to visit Berri (and the Berri Ferry) and Waikerie (and the Waikerie Bakery).  

    The Berri Ferry - or one very much like it, can be found at Morgan

A short stop at Morgan (the Prop checked every church but there was no organ in any of them. However, a lady at the post office said that the Prop had misapprehended the nature of the Organ in question).  Undeterred the Prop did manage to locate the Morgan Morgue, which, to be fair, nearly rhymes.

The Morgan Morgue - a splendid place to be accommodated after life has ceased.

  Detail of the sign shown in the preceding picture (just in case the cynics thought that the Prop had fabricated the "morgue" story.

The post-luncheon session proved to be the most arduous yet. Driving into a persistent force 6 gale (on the Beaufort scale) the Rig struggled to stay in top gear - even when going downhill!  

It is no exaggeration to say that had the Prop taken his foot off the accelerator, the Rig would have begun to move backwards!  Fuel consumption, already an alarmingly low 20l per 100 plummeted to around 30l per 100 (or about 60 cents a kilometre!!!)

Made Burra in a maelstrom of Shakesperean proportions about mid afternoon.

For those not in the know, the little-known former mining town of Burra is the place at which the Charter of the same name was adopted.  Not quite the Magna Carta of King John or the Bill of Rights of 1689, the Burra Charter sets out the principles relating to the conservation of Australia's built heritage.  The town itself is something of a heritage hot spot.  As with many buildings in South Australia the lack of naturally available building timber (there being so few big trees) resulted in their being constructed from rock or stone. (This same lack of trees resulted in the invention by a governent engineer named Stobie, of the steel and concrete telegraph pole, commonly known as the Stobie pole) Although now well over 100 years old, most of the buildings look like they might have been built 6 months ago.

Brilliant Burra - home of the Bura Charter, an ageing gentleman who makes fake antiquarian maps 

    The Burra Bridge - O! O! O!

BURRA TO WOOMERA

 The Joe Hockey-designed wind farm just west of Burra, South Australia.

Like Joe, the Prop would prefer to see large clouds of cancer-causing coal smoke belching into the atmosphere or piles of million-year hazardous radioactive waste, than these dark satanic mills!  

      

Just west of Burra lies an extensive "wind farm" of the kind so recently admired by Federal Treasurer, Joe Hockey.  The tempest of the preceding day had well and truly abated.  So much so that the wind turbines depicted above were barely in motion.

At Winnowie where the B56 joins the A1 (The Princess Highway) the pleasant green of Burra gradually begins to give way to a harsher landscape.  North of Port Augusta it begins to become very barren indeed, saltbush and gibber plains as far as the eye can see.

More of a ghost town than an oasis, Woomera lies about 180 km north west of Port Augusta. Curiously, for a place with almost no permanent residents, Woomera has a very large and impressive sports complex, a theatre and a very well-tended and luxuriant oval.  It is not clear when the "O'Donoghue Oval" was last used but it stands ready to host even the most demanding first-class fixture. Perhaps a new AFL franchise will be established there in time - the Woomera Weapons!

The O'Donoghue Oval at Woomera - the MCG of the mid-north of South Australai and the only green grass for 100 miles.  There is grass on the pitch but no-one to play!

 Some of the impressive array of state-of-the-art thermonuclear devices which stand sentinel over Wommera - and indeed, the whole of Australia.  Only Tony Abbott, George Brandis and Erich Abetz have the launch codes. Sleep peacefully Australia!

 

WOOMERA TO COOBER PEDY

Have been driving north for days and the Rig is still in South Australia!  

At Port Augusta Mrs P reported having heard a "popping sound" under the bonnet of the Troll.  Thereafter the Prop begins to hear an ever louder whirring noise emanating from the same general region of the vehicle.  The Prop''s concerns reach fever pitch on arrival at Coober pedy when he discovers that, in the course of manouvering the Rig into its assigned site, the Troll has traced a series of more or less perfect arcs in oil on the ground!!!

Mrs P rings the RAC (in fact the RAA) who, pursuant to some mysterious national reciprocal agreement attend within minutes.  An Indian gentleman who claims to be both an electrician and a motor mechanic (but whose main preoccupation seems to be filling out reams and reams of forms for the Prop to sign) at length proclaims; "Your A-frame's busted.  Gonna cost a milliion bucks to fix - and that's without labour!"  That's not what the man says, but it is what the Prop hears!  In fact he mumbles something about power steering pumps and high pressure hoses and pinholes, so the million bucks bit is looking like a pretty accurate translation.  It is Saturday afternoon. He does not work on Saturday afternoons - other than to answer emergency calls for which he is handsomely rewarded by the RAA - hence the paperwork. He tells me to bring the Troll to his employer's premises at 8.00 am on the followiing Monday morning so someone can look at it.  He explains that it won't be him because he is in charge of windseceens. So, the Prop thinks, we have a qualified electrician and motor mechanic who specialises in windscreens!

Long story short (which is how the Amercians like to say "in summary") the next day the Prop spots a van saying "24 hour hydraulic hose service - we come to you" parked outside the local pub which is imaginatively named "The Oasis".  Loitering a while, the Prop intrecepts the driver who says he can't do anything today (Sunday) as he has aother job on (one that required him to have a few drinks first it seems) but that he will visit the Rig on site at 7.30 the next morning.  Off he toddles.

Later that day the Prop enters the "facilities" at the "Oasis" caravan park (anywhere in Coober Pedy where fluid is avaialble - other than service stations - is an "oasis") only to find a man and a woman peering under one of the dunny doors.  The Prop quickly establishes that in fact the husband of the woman has collapsed in a shower cubicle and is unconscious (or worse) and the door canot be opened from the outside.  The Prop "runs" to reception to call an ambulance and to try to get a ladder so we can climb into the cubicle.  

Upon returning to the scene, the Prop finds that a third man has dragooned a 12 year old Dutch tourist and lifted him into the cubicle in order to open the door.  Something which the young man duly does despite the somewhat nightmarish sight that would have confronted him.

Thereupon with the assistance by telephone of the 000 lady, the Prop and two others take it in turns to administer CPR and mouth to mouth to the apprently lifeless bather pending the arrival of the ambulance.  Maybe 15 or 20 minutes later (it seemd a good deal longer) the Ambos arrived but after another 15 or 20 minutes of unsuccessful recussitation attempts, the bather is pronounced dead. His wife - now quite suddenly and unexpectedly, his widow - is stranded in Coober Pedy in a caravan park miles from her home and family in Melbourne.  

The Prop's problem with the power steering can now be viewed from a rather different perspective.    

    

Next morning, more in hope than expectation, the Prop arose early ready to greet the hose man.  7.30 - no sign.  7.45 - no sign.  But at 7.50 on the dot the hose man appears in company with two other men.  One looks surprisingly tired and emotional for the time of day and sayys and does nothing.  The other, apparently quite sober, is complaining of the cold.  The word "Geoff" is embridered on his windcheater.  After the briefest of inspections Geoff says "Your A-frame is fine. I can fix this with a screwdriver"  

And he does! (well sort of) and charges me $10.00.  Having only a 5 a 10 and a 50 in his wallett, the Prop offers $15.  Geoff says $10 is fine.  Perhaps he is insulted by the Prop's paltry attempt to show his gratitude.  Half a litre of power steering fluid later the whirring noise is gone and the Rig is back in business (well sort of).

Next - COOBER PEDY TO KULGERA     

    

ALBURY TO HAY TO MILDURA

As the Rig rolled out of Albury, Mrs P bade a fond farewell to her childhood home.

    Sackville Street,  Albury - many happy memories but now under new management.

Leaving NSW we briefly entered Victoria at Wodonga before realizing what we had done and hastily retuned to NSW via Howlong singing the old Mark Knopfler standard "How long baby, how long has it been?...." and headed west towards "Denny" (Deniliquin) then through Finley and the tiny settlement of Blighty where Mrs P's aged aunt (qv) and her family once lived.

The Prop fondly recalled a hot January afternoon in 1976 when he and Ms A ( as Mrs P then was) spent several slaking hours at the Blighty pub where a close relative of Ms A was working behind the bar and plied us (and herself) with an abundance of fizz at well below AHA recommended prices. This was just as well because the day in question was so hot that every time we left the pub to go home we had to go back inside to get a cool drink!  It hardly needs to be said that the day did not end in sobriety.

Forty years on, the Blighty Pub is showing its undoubted age but the Prop noticed that a very attractive "beer garden" has been added.  Not sure how much beer they manage to grow there, but it looks like it could do with a tonne or two of compost!

The Blighty Pub with "new" beer garden. Just the spot for those who may be new to the 'Yabba.

Beyond Blighty one enters the Hay Plains - seemingly endless saltbush plains that have a surreal and, eventually, a soporific quality.  The interesting thing about the Hay Plains is that they are so very uninteresting. Paradoxically, this makes them something of a novelty!

The Hay Plains - lots of saltbush but no hay to speak of. (This picture would have looked the same no matter which direction the photographer was facing)

Spent Tuesday night in Hay  - justly known locally as the Paris of the South, although the Murrumbidgee looks nothing like the Seine and the Telstra tower looks nothing like the Eiffel.

The Telstra Tower at Hay. Nothing like the Eiffel Tower!

Westward ho towards Mildura and more Hay Plains!!!

               The Hay Plains  - note the road sign in the near distance, a local point of interest.

Arrived at Mildura or, more accurately at the riverside caravan park at Buronga which lies on the NSW banks of the Murray River directly across the river from Mildura.  This is a very pleasant establishment but most importantly it is not in Victoria!  The park is populated by a variety of wildlife.  There is also quite a bit of native fauna!

A NSW native hen.  Rather more attractive than its Tasmanian cousins - perhaps tastier too.

A view of one of the southernmost parts of the State of New South Wales.  Some of Victoria can be seen in the distance, if you can be bothered looking.

To be continued......

BERMAGUI TO ULLADULLA TO GUNDAGAI TO ALBURY

Preoccupied  by domestic matters and the health of Mrs P, the Prop has not attended to the Blog as assiduously as some readers would, apparently, have liked.

The good news is that, Mrs P, true to her robust disposition and "never-say-fractured" ethos has insisted that the "Peregrination to the Centre of the Earth" (as the current expedition is now commonly called by the travel cognoscenti) should continue apace and unabated.

                                 Beer can be purchased at this place in Bermagui

The bad news is that "continentality" is an undoubted fact of meteorological life.  Put more simply, it is colder inland at night than it is on the coast. This accounts for the fact that the minimum temperatures experienced by Hobart are almost always higher than those experienced by Launceston - for although Hobart is not located on the coast as such, it does lie adjacent to a considerable body of water (i.e., the Derwent estuary) whereas Launceston is in a hole in the ground miles from anywhere and, more particularly, miles from any water (if you don,t count the so-called Tamar River which is, in truth, a water mudslide and not a river at all. This temperature differential is due to the fact that water both absorbs and retains heat from the sun more efficiently than does dry land - which also explains sea-breezes which are no more than giant convection currents.

But the Prop once again digresses.

The short point is that by staying on the coast we might have enjoyed the moderating influence of the maritime provinces.  We might have continued to enjoy the ample delights of Bermagui (despite the unpleasant memories) and of Ulladulla and Nowra and other coastal settlements too numerous to mention by name.

                 Tremendous Tuross Head - a very nice place for a swim in warm weather

                                    Unbelievable  Ulladulla - more than meets the eye!

                  Gracious Gundagai - the dog and tucker box are not shown

Instead, we are now in Albury. 

[TIP: Never call Albury "Albury-Wodonga" in the presence of a denizen of Albury.  Should you do so you may be the subject of a violent physical attack - if you are lucky! The people of Albury (NSW) do not, as a rule, like the people of Wodonga (Vic) and not just because they are Victorians.  There also other very good reasons)

Instead we now thrill to daytime maxima of 12 and sometimes 13 and overnight minima approaching 0 degrees Kelvin!! For the moment we have the benenft of mains electricity and an air conditioner and fan heater in the Spinnaker  - unlike in Campbell Town (q.v.)

"Why Albury?" the Prop hears his readers ask.  

Well, Albury happens to be the family seat and hometown of Mrs P - not that any of her relatives live here any longer and not that the place looks much like it did in the 1960's.  Nevertheless the family home is still standing (despite having been gentrified by some well-meaning but tasteless "Gardening Australia" viewer) and so is the primary school and the hated  Scottish "ladies college" that passed for a high school in those days.

Westward Ho!  And hope it doesn't get too much colder 

By the way, Germany won the FIFA World Cup.  Daft game soccer!  At least the final was decided by two teams playing soccer instead of by playing a completely different game (i.e., a penalty shootout)        

 .  

PAMBULA BEACH TO BERMAGUI TO BEGA TO BERMAGUI TO BEGA TO BERMAGUI TO BEGA TO

 

It all began well enough.....

The Rig rolled out of Pambula Beach on Saturday morning with a provisional destination of Bateman's Bay.  But as the ploughman said to the startled fieldmouse,
"The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft aglay"

The previous day the Prop and Mrs P had visited Mrs P's aged aunt who had recently removed from Albury to Pambula (as distinct from Pambula Beach).  At the suggestion of the aged aunt we travelled to Tathra to inspect the still vacant beachfront property newly-acquired by the aged aunt's daughter (Mrs P's cousin).  Not content with an external inspection of the messuage, the aged aunt insisted she knew the whereabouts of a hidden key so we could gain entry.

In fact it would have been more accurate for the aged aunt to have said that she was sure that there was a key somewhere but that she had forgotten just where it was.

In the event the enthusiastic (and noisy) efforts of the aged aunt to locate the alleged key attracted the attention of a burly neighbour who intercepted the Prop in the back yard of the premises and began making allegations which were inconsistent with him believing that the Prop's is an honest man!

It was not until the aged aunt (whom the burly neighbour recognised) emerged from a shed that the burly neighbour was prepared to accept that the Prop and Mrs P were not malefactors.

But back to Saturday.

Not far north of Bega, the Prop spotted a sign which invited him to take the "tourist drive" to Bateman's Bay via Bermagui.  The Prop had heard of Bermagui but had never been there.  Mrs P disclosed that as a child, she had been on many a day trip to Bermagui while holidaying at nearby Tuross Lake.  Enough said!  The Prop guided the Rig into Bermagui and, struck by its beauty, decided to head for the Bermagui "Zane Grey" Tourist Park. (Look up Zane Grey on the internet - American author and big game fisherman)

So pleasant was Bermagui that it was decided that we would spend a second night at the Zane Gray.

It was in this way that destiny bit the Prop on the buttocks - hard!

Up betimes on Sunday morning to explore more of the attractions of Bermagui and environs.  One such attraction is a man made ocean swimming pool known as the "Blue Pool".  As we approached the attraction, Mrs P, momentarily distracted by the breeching of a whale in the near distance, failed to notice a fairly well-concealed kerb in the pavement, stepped into mid air and fell fracturing BOTH wrists  and striking her head on a fence post in the process!

                             Bega District Hospital - a nice place for a holiday

Pain - ambulance - Bega Hospital - more pain - surgery - even more pain - morphine - a bit less pain - panadol - difficulty knitting and attending to personal hygeine - bummer!

   V.                      

So while Mrs P was detained in the Bega District Hospital adjacent to the Maternity Ward ("From Here to Maternity") the Prop has been doing the 60 k "commute" (as the Americans would have it)  from Bermagui to said Hospital for the past three days.

                 Beautiful Bermagui - the civil engineering leaves a lot to be desired!

Footnote:
In 1992 when the Prop passed through Bega for the first time, he stopped at an establishment called the "Toddle Inn".  There the Prop purchased the very best hamburger "with the lot" that he has ever eaten.  Indeed every hamburger that the Prop has ever eaten since has been quite deliberately compared to the legendary "Bega Burger of '92".  The Prop has to report that the "Toddle Inn" no longer exists.  In its place (well actually about two or three blocks away) there is now a "McDonalds Family Restaurant" where yesterday the Prop purchased a "Brazil Burger" for lunch.

It hardly needs to be said but the Bega Burger of '92 remains the standard by which all other burgers will continue to be judged.  Put another way, I'd rather have a Bega Burger than a Brazilian any day - so much more flavour!
   

MALLACOOTA TO PAMBULA BEACH

                DISASTER STRIKES!

        THE SPINNAKER EXPLODES?

This is the kind of overblown, misleading headline popularised by newspapers owned by Mr Rupert Murdoch. It contains a grain of truth but its primary purpose is not to inform the reader of the facts.  It is to sell newspapers thereby making money for Mr Murdoch. It is in this way (together with pictures of bare-breasted girls on page 3), that Rupert Murdoch has "commodified" the news.  (In fact, the term "commodified"is probably now passé, having been replaced by the less euphemistic "monetised".) 

The truth is that the Spinnaker developed an electrical fault - apparently as a result of poor workmanship in its construction (not of merchantable quality, the Prop hears you say) which resulted in the Prop and his wife being without electrical power in Mallacoota.  

An alternative explanation is that the patrons of the Mallacoota Hotel, incensed by the revelations contained in the Prop's previous article, pronounced some kind of hex or fatwa on the Prop and his possessions (windcheater excluded).

Whatever the true explanation may be, the Prop had to have both arms and a leg amputated in order to pay an electrical contractor to partially fix the problem.  The Prop should have realised there would be trouble when the sparky rolled up in a van with the name "Shylock & Sons - Electrical Contractors - Mastercard, Visa & Flesh acceped"

Lots of trees between Mallacotta and Pambula.  Also quite a lot of hills - both up and down.  Strange to see log trucks laden with logs, going back and forth - reminded the Prop of Tasmania a few years back.

          Pulchitudinous Pambula

Arrived at Pambula Beach at about 1430 hours.  Booked in to the "Pambula Beach Discovery Park" which, at the peak of the season, packs 'em in like sardines.  Today, in the middle of winter, there is a little more room but this is still high density living - complete with kangaroos (who apprently don't pay site fees).  The prop has been told not to feed or befriend the kangaroos as they may become aggressive.  Reminds me a bit of how things were in France with the locals! 

 

  A long time park resident. Tame but strangely aggressive if approached. 

Cheek by wizened jowl among the grey nomads at Pambula. It's just like Florida without the peninsula..... or the Jewish widows. 

 

LAKES ENTRANCE TO MALACOOTA

There are a great many trees between Lakes Entrance and Mallacoota.

Some of them have been cut down.  

Some of them have quite recently been burned in bushfires.  

Many many, many more remain standing and grow very tall.  

Nearly 30 years ago a man called Stevens, who cut down trees for a living, was injured and sued his employers....or were they his employers?  The Brodbbibb River Sawmilling Company Pty Ltd said that it was not the employer of Mr Stevens.  The High Court said that it was.  

And that was that.

(For full details see: http://www.austlii.edu.au/cgi-bin/sinodisp/au/cases/cth/HCA/1986/1.html?stem=0&synonyms=0&query=title(brodribb%20)

Quite apart from the many trees, the landscape is strikingly similar to that of western Tasmania, consisting as it does principally of wet sclerophyl forest dominated by ecucalypts and massive man ferns. Everyone but the driver enjoys the flickering dappled sunlight as it flutters in your eyes as you pass through these anceint forests.  

    Mallacoota Foreshore Caravan Park

The Rig rolled into Mallacoota Inlet at about 1330 hours. The Prop chose to revisit this delightful little estuarine village after leaving his favorite windcheater in the lounge bar of the local pub in 1986 after watching a doco on TV about the Galileo space probe.  At that same time, Halley's Comet was also passing close to Earth so, in retrospect, 1986 was something of a bumper year astronomically speaking.  However, from the keeping-possession-of-your-windcheater point of view it was, for me, (as you may have guessed) a bit of a bummer!  

One of the patrons at the Malacoota Hotel.  Looks familiar doesen't he?

So 28 years later, more in hope than expectation, the Prop strode confidently into that same lounge bar and asked 

"Has anyone seen a yellow windcheater with the letter "A" and a laurel wreath enbroidered on the left breast?  I left it here in 1986?" 

One man (who was probably not even born in 1986) repliied  

"No mate.  Was it valuable?" 

Before the Prop could reply, another man said 

"Fuck off!"  

Then the the barman told the Prop that he would have to leave as he (the Prop, not the barman) was upsetting the patrons!  

I think the bastards have still got my windcheater!  

The barman at the Mallacoota Hotel.  Well dressed for a barman? Perhaps.  Something to hide? Certainly!

They probably get it out whenever there is an unusual astronomical phenomenon and use it as the centrepiece in some ancient arcane Druidic ritual whose true meaning has been long lost in the mists of time.

Bastards!    

  An example of the kind of animal that the patrons of the Mallacoota Hotel probably like to sacrifice when performing ancient rituals involving the Prop's windcheater. 

TUESDAY 1 JULY 2014

SOMEWHERE IN BASS STRAIT TO LAKES ENTRANCE

The Prop awoke at about 0300 hrs to find water at every point of the compass. The boisterous seas encountered off Devonport had by now subsided and, as the Prop's wife sagely observed, "Its all plain sailing now."  

And indeed it was.

Disembaking at 0650 hours it was still completely dark.  As the Prop navigated "the Rig" through the darkened shiny-wet  streets of Melbourne he was reminded of his salad days when it was commonplace for him to find himself driving home in the early hours well and truly hammered after a long night on the fizz.  

Happily, the Prop took little or no fizz on board, so everyhtibng was OK.

The Prop dutifully obeyed the instructions barked at him by the brand new giant sized GPS machine on the dashboard and, at length, left the metropolis that is greater Melbourne.  Ass he did so, legion upon legion of commuting motorists poured into the city from the opposite direction, the seemiingly endless traiin of their glittereing headlights resembling some aimless giant serpent that had become lost in the dark.  Little pre-school aged children were dropped off at day-care in the dark, hours before they should even have been out of bed.  But for them, this is presumably everyday life.

Arrived at Lakes Entrance about 1300 hours and booked into the local footy oval which doubles as a rather Bohemian  camping facility.  One star facilities but with 5 star views.

Absolute waterfront address at Lakes Entrance

Resisting the urge to sleep, the Prop undertook some routine Rig maintenance and made some very welcome imrovements in the on-board karsi.  The Prop would have liked to have provided photographic evidence of said improvements but the Prop's wife says that she does not want pics of her thunderbox on the electric internet.  

Who am I to argue?

Ended the day having a few beers with a local Billy Connolly impersonator and his bald agent who revealed to his client that he has been taking an extra 7% for last 15 years.  The client took it suurprisingly well quipping that "17% of fuck all is still fuck all!"

"Billy Connolly" and his bald agent share a lighter moment.

30 JUNE 2014

Campbbell Town to Somewhere in Bass Strait

It turns out that there was a very good reason why no-one except the Prop and his wife camped out in Campbell Town on Sunday night!  Everyone else had evidently read the weather forecast and was aware that the temperature was due to fall to minus three degrees - which it duly did!  Curiously, it was not so much the cold as the persistent dripping of condensation from the roof of the Spinnaker that kept the Prop awake.

Up betimes to set off for Devonport.

Despite making every effort to turn what is, at worst, a 2 hour trip into an 7 hour epic, the Rig arrived at the banks of the Mersey not long after 1400 hours.  No boarding the SoT until well after 6.00pm so tthere was nothing else for it.  Siesta time!

The arrangements for loading the Sprit(s) of Tasnania are elaborate, laborious and pass all understanding.  Check in is said to close at 1815 hours but cars (which are loaded before large vehicles and cars towing caravans) were still arriving and being allowed to board at 1850 hours.  Not surprising then, that we did not sail at 1900 hours as scheduled.

      Spirit of Tasmania II being loaded

At length we were on board and under weigh. 

The Prop dined in the Spirt Rude Food Resaurant and enjoyed a dish the name of which he never learned to pronounce.

            An unnown rude meal

The Captain of the Spirit of Tasmania II is a remarkable lady who eschews traditional naval dress and drinks champagne (or is it Australian Sparkling Wine?) while on the bridge.

   The Capatain of the Spirit Tasmania II

 

THE JOURNEY BEGINS.....

CHAPTER THE THIRD

Being a more or less contemporaneous account of the Prop's perigrinations even unto the uttermost parts of the Great Southern Land.

PROLOGUE

Dolphin Sands to Campbell Town

     Nine Mile Beach - Dolphin Sands

Having blown some hot air on the sharp end of his trusty Biro and scribbled on a bit of scrap paper, the Prop was delighted to find that the ink was still running after nearly four years!

In what must have been a force 6 gale on the Beaufort scale the Prop and his wife spent the early part of the day loading the neccessaries (and, it has to be conceded, quite a few un-neccessaries (4 cameras , 3 computers, 2 short wave radios [who listens to short wave any more?] and a partridge in a pear tree) into the 'Trol and the Spinnaker.  The former being a 1990 Nissan Patrol which the Prop has owned almost since he was a boy, the latter being a rather commodious 16ft caravan complete with shower and karsi.

The 'Trol and the Spinnaker - a.k.a. "the Rig"

On departure, a rather portly gentleman appeared with a glass of champagne and a top hat and insisted on making a long, but well-intentioned farewell speech. Although it delayed our departure by some hours, it was much appreciated - and quite moving in an odd sort of way.

The aforesaid portly but genial gentleman

The journey from Dolphin Sands to Campbell Town was scenic but uneventful.  The Prop feared that "the Rig" might buffeted by high winds or that there may be ice on the Lake Leake Road (or even leak on the Lake Ice Road!) but none of these things came to pass.

After the rousing farewell from Dolphin Sands our arrival in Campbell Town was marked by....well, it was not marked at all.  The Prop wasn't expecting a ticker-tape parade but it would have been nice if the Mayor (or even an ordinary councillor) had turned out to greet us.  As it was we headed straight to the municipal "RV Friendly" reserve to find that we were the only happy campers taking advantage of generosity of the ratepayers of the Northern Midlands Council that night.

Beautiful Campbell Town and the Elizabeth River.