Nights 257 - 264; the South Western corner.

NIGHT  257  -  MT BURNSIDE REST AREA, HIGHWAY 1.

We left Margaret River enchanted and in love; with each other, of course, but also with the Margaret River area.  Across four days we tasted wine and cheese, ice-cream and chocolate.  I surfed waves with power. We swam in turquoise water.  We strolled quirky small towns nestled beneath large shady trees.  We celebrated a Christmas coming with fake cows (At the town of Coweramup –actually pronounced car/where/a/mup - but the name starts with the letters that spell cow, and surely that’s a good enough excuse).  

 

 The Margaret River area is a magical place if you love things not too slick.  Margaret River, the town itself, is becoming commercialised and commodified.  It’s still ok though.  It’s still small cafes rather than fast food chains; local surf shops rather than the big maxi-stores).

But the itinerary of the winery tour we stumbled home from (Margies Big Day Out) didn’t frequent the posher wineries we sought, so we visited a couple on the way out.  It provided a chance for us to appraise a small exhibition of the Holmes a- Court family’s art collection (at Vasse Felix – very impressive) and to purchase a 95% rated bottle of vino (Suckfizzle from Stella Bella Winery, as rated by James Halliday, who apparently knows about such things).

We then drove into the backwoods where Highway 1 becomes increasingly slimmer, eventually thinning into a pot-holed country blacktop barely big enough for two-way traffic.  Here, out in the boondocks, where the tree canopy blocked out any sun, we parked in a nondescript rest area, me falling asleep on the lounge while Shana reorganised safe storage for her prized new wine.

I give the Mt Burnside Rest Area 2 stars out of 5.  It has no amenities except a table and some bins but it was free, and we needed that after a Margaret River blow-out.

NIGHTS  258 & 259  -  COSY CORNER, NEAR DENMARK.

 We’ve been worried about what we’ll be doing around Christmas and school holiday time.  As I’ve said before, school holidays and Public Holidays can be problematic for we nomadic types.  Everything doubles in price and all dogs immediately morph into Cerebus or the three headed dog from Harry Potter. But house-sitting seemed to provide the perfect solution.  We can be nice; we can be responsible.  So we texted off applications for places in South Australia and places in Victoria.  We offered ourselves for the holiday period, requesting dates that suited our preference.  Recently we were accepted, which is fantastic, but we now there’s a ’must’ in our midst. We must now be in Melbourne by December 20.

That means we now have to plan.  We now need an itinerary.  We now have a long way to go and not much time to get there. 

Sure it’s exciting and great, and it provides us with security and purpose, but it also introduces limitations into our present, like what happened at Cosy Corner.

Cosy Corner is pretty magical.  It’s a free camp, at the end of a tarred road, right on the beach, where dogs are allowed.  There are only a few sites available, nestled away beneath low leafy trees.  It’s well known and popular.  You have to be lucky to get a spot.

 

We were moderately lucky.

We’d spent time walking among the ‘ancient giants’ – massive old red tingle trees in the hills around Denmark.  And we spent time in Denmark itself, a beautiful hippy/artsy town.  So we arrived at Cosy Corner quite late, at least in free camp time anyway.  (Ideally, to score a good free camp site, you need to be there around mid-day). We scored a spot, but it was a secondary spot, away from the main area with its ocean views and leafy low trees.  We scored a spot up on the ridge, in amongst the scrub and the sand, next to a bogan family with three kids, a snarling dog, and a fetish for the album Zeppelin 4, (although she obviously preferred Prince, and played his greatest hits when permitted).

But, y’know, it was okay.  We smiled politely.  We walked to the beach and ran with Moz.  We followed some bush tracks stickybeaking.  Then we pulled our curtains against the dark and settled down for the night.  (We had the last episodes of Season 1 of ‘Nurse Jackie’ to watch).

The morning glimmered warmth and sunshine.  We watched people leave, freeing up spots in the main area.  Our itinerary only allowed one night at Cosy Corner.  But the sun was shining and there was a great spot now vacant, near to the track to the beach.  From there you could see the water shimmering between the trees.

So, itinerary be buggered.

Shana and Moz stood in the spot while I went and got the ‘bago.  Once parked we pulled out our awning and laid down our mat.  An hour later, however, the weather had closed in. From inside the ‘bago we sat and watched the drizzle collect into pools.

It rained all day and into the night.  We read and watched DVDs and looked across the ocean.

 The next morning taunted us again with its sunshine.  But it didn’t matter - the itinerary was already bruised.  We had to leave.  We had no choice.

We give Cosy Corner 4 stars out of 5.  It’s beautiful, accessible and free – exactly the trifecta we seek.

 NIGHT  26O  -  THE WEIRDOS PLACE, ALBANY COAST.

I am being deliberately vague in my description of place.  This is due to a sense of honour on my part.  I don’t want to list the name or the address of someone who could be on the autistic spectrum.  Unfortunately it could simply be that he’s an absolute prick.  I’m hoping it’s the former.  I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt and letting him retain anonymity.

The story is really Shana’s.   You’ll see what I mean as you read further.  She’s permitting my retelling/fictionalisation of it.  Maybe she’ll write it herself someday. 

We’d reached Albany in the early morning, in time to catch the local farmer’s market.  We strolled among the fresh breads, the less-than-perfect-looking organic vegies, the fruit in Styrofoam boxes.  We made our purchases and then wandered the town in search of the always elusive ‘good coffee’. 

Albany is a pretty place, the streets cut like terraces into hillsides that slope down into the harbour.  There are enough old buildings to echo the town’s history, and enough new businesses to give it a youthful, contemporary feel.  We liked it.  It had a good feel.

Sightseeing over, we drove to the main beach.  Shan’ had read of free hot showers available beside the tavern there.  We didn’t believe it possible, but we found them easily enough.  Leaving Moz in the ‘bago we soaped ourselves clean.  It was then off to the best surfing beach in the area, about 30 minutes east of Albany.  We hoped to camp there overnight even though we knew there was no designated camping area.  It didn’t worry us.  We’d sneaky camped before.

The beach and surrounding area was truly majestic.  It’s at the end of a river, the river- mouth sealed shut with sand so the river acts like an estuary, a 200mtr wide sand-bar between it and the surf.  The bay was shaped like the Nike swoosh, with well-formed little waves breaking into the corner.  They were closing out though, breaking in a line along the beach.  As you walked further, around the rocky outcrop at the end of the swoosh, a small lake became revealed; a tiny inlet-like crater within the rock, a semi-circle of sand along part of the perimeter.  Beyond further a stone staircase climbed the headland, leading to an exclusive and expensive guest house that used the little inlet like a private swimming pool.

It was such a beautiful place. There was no surf  today, but maybe in the morning it would be offshore and glassy .  It was a possibility.  We discussed staying the night as walked back to the ‘bago.  We discussed the numerous signs we’d seen that warned against camping or even sleeping in a vehicle.  The fine was $1000.  (And, this is true, we walked past the Ranger’s ute which was bogged in the sand, a young guy in a ranger’s uniform digging behind the back wheels.  Nobody offered assistance).

I wanted to risk the fine.  My logic was that if the ranger was here now, he was unlikely to come back later in the day.  Surely becoming bogged had put him behind schedule.  He’d have other places to check and less time now to do it in.  I figured our odds of being fined were very slim.

Slim, but as Shan pointed out, not impossible.  We debated it over sandwiches.  I really wanted to stay the night and check the break out in the morning.  Shan’ said she’d love to have an early morning swim in the little inlet.  So we both wanted to stay,  but… 

With nothing resolved, I went to the toilet.

I was there for maybe five minutes (don’t ask).

When I got back I was met by a large goofy looking guy in an oversized sunhat, his arm outstretched toward me.  As we shook hands Shana introduced us.   The guy lived right beside where we were, behind the gate we’d reversed past and joked that we’d like to drive through.  We’d also joked about camping in the front yard.  And here this guy was, offering us exactly that.  He said that the rangers come around all the time and fines are common.  He said he hated seeing people get fined – it didn’t bother him if we parked inside the gate.

We couldn’t believe it, but of course we didn’t knock it back. We both shook his hand again and accepted.

So we parked the ‘bago, met the guys wife and drank cool drinks around his dining table.  We were given the tour of  the house as if we were prospective buyers.  “We do this all the time” the guy said.  His wife, completely unflustered by our sudden arrival at her door, agreed.   “We’ve had Germans and French“ she said, then laughing added “remember the three little Japanese girls”.  We waited while they both remembered the Japanese girls fondly, looking out over the distant hills from their back veranda. 

 

The guy was a fisherman and was full of fishing stories.  I sought a fishing mentor and so he took me down to the estuary.  He showed me his favourite spot and gave me some of his favourite bait. He confidently predicted that my line would “get slammed”.

 Shana & Mozz came with us.

I waded out into the shallows while the others stayed on the bank.  In 15 minutes I’d only caught a small black bream and Shana, who had to listen to the guy’s non-stop nattering, said she was going for a walk.  She expected to go alone but he tagged along, leaving me up to my thighs in cold water. 

They were gone for ages.  In fact, I started to worry they’d been gone so long. 

There were people on the beach so I thought everything would be okay.  When they finally returned, Shana was walking in the water, he walking alongside her but on the shore.  She rolled her eyes when close enough, indicating a less than pleasant adventure.  “”I was worried about you” I said quietly.  “You should have been” she answered, and her face reinforced that she wasn’t joking.

She revealed what had happened when back at the ‘bago.

Firstly, halfway along the beach, he swept her into a cuddle unannounced, which shocked her but  she didn’t fully reject it.  She describes it as like the cuddle a downs syndrome child would give.  It wasn’t pleasant, but it was not a cause for alarm.  They then walked along past the tiny inlet, him talking all the way, and up the stairs toward the exclusive resort.  When out of view he tried to force himself upon her.  Shana pushed him away firmly, telling him it was not ok.  She headed back and he followed.  He tried a couple more times and each time Shan’ rebuffed him.  He tried to apologise, saying that he “sometimes gets carried away”.  Once down the stairs  and back on the beach he then tried to hold her hand.  Shana took to walking in the water to escape his advances.  She noticed that he was wearing shoes that he didn’t want to get wet.

I got angry when I heard this.  I wanted to confront him about it, more so that his wife knew rather than anything else, and then get out of there.  Shana asked me not to.  She said that, in her mind, it was harmless.  Again, she compared it to downs syndrome.  She spoke of a brain injury he had told her about.  She said that we may as well stay; that she’d dealt with it and it was over with. 

But he came back just before dark, talking to us as if nothing had happened.  I pretended pleasantries while Shana stayed in the ‘bago.  He finally got the message and went back to the house.

We stayed there that night, but neither of us slept much.  My mind was conjuring several Wolf Creek type scenarios.  I double checked everything was locked, put the torch next to the bed, put the keys in the ignition.  The front gate was chained but I’d checked it out.  The chain was skinny and there was no lock.  The ‘bago hitting it at speed would easily spring it open.

We awoke before 5am.  We went and checked the surf and the inlet.  It would have to be absolutely perfect for us to stay.  It wasn’t.  We drove out of the gate before 6am, Shana leaving a quickly scrawled ‘Thank You’ note stuck to the gate.  We then sped away.  Breakfast would wait for a hundred kilometres or so.

I rate it MA 15+: it contains unsavoury topics and weird-arsed scenes.

NIGHT  261  -  HOPETOUN CARAVAN PARK.

I love it when a caravan park has the prime spot.

 In Hopetoun, the caravan park is right on the beach, behind a sandy point so that you can access either side depending on which track you take.  It accepts dogs and offers beautiful individual sites separated by wide canopied trees, each site dictated by the tree’s natural growth rather than conforming to some predetermined geometrical grid. 

 

Lovely.

Hopetoun is 50kmoff the main highway, with nothing else around it.  We went there anyway.

I’m glad that we did.

It was here that I became a fisherman.

If the weirdo had one redeeming feature it was that he told me fresh chicken was the best bait.  Up til now I’d tried squid and pilchards and various soft plastic pretend fish.  All with little success.    But using chicken I spent 2 exciting hours constantly reeling fish in.

 I was catching lots, but was unsure what exactly I was catching.  I was catching two types - one sort of breamy but sleek and almost chrome looking.  These put up quite a fight.  The other was sort of like a fat, squat whiting, but not really, and they jumped out of the water while you were reeling them in, sometimes jumping onto the sand ahead of the line. 

I threw a couple of both types back before I decided to keep them.  Whatever they were they looked edible, if a little on the small side.  If they were undersized then that was bad luck.  We were going to eat them.  They weren’t being wasted.   I ended up with three of the chrome ones in my bucket, and nine of the little fat ones.  As soon as my bait hit the water something attacked it.  It was the best fishing I’d ever had.

I returned just on dark.  Shan’, working on past experience, had already cooked chicken kebabs, but she was as excited as I when she looked in the bucket.  She went to get her phone while I filleted the catch – with her help the internet was going to inform us what we’d be eating tomorrow.

The little fat ones were Tommy Ruffs, edible if a bit oily and bony.  The chrome ones were Skipps (Silver Trevally), generally considered good eating.

For only the second time we had a plate of fresh fish fillets in the fridge.  I had more bait.  I couldn’t wait ‘til morning.

I give the Hopetoun Caravan Park 3 stars out of 5.  We liked it a lot but the toilets were a bit too grotty and the shower shot water over your shoulder and out the door (insert height joke here).

NIGHT 262  -  QUAGI BEACH

The road was rough.  Shana was driving.  Our jiggling eyes met.  “I can’t help it” she said as we thumped over another series of corrugations.  “Yeah, yeah, I know” I said, hopefully reassuring her.  It didn’t stop me from flinching though.

Quagi Beach was 8km off the highway – about 4kms of pitted and rutted red dirt road, followed by 4km of pitted and rutted hard packed sand.  Our research had assured us the drive in was pretty good, easily managed by 2WD.  Several reviews had said so similarly.

 Prats.

It was terrible.

But we got in so technically the reviews weren’t wrong.  But it was anything but easy or comfortable.  Our insides had been shaken about.  The ‘bago’s insides had been shaken about.  Quagi Beach had better be worth it.

It was, and more.

In fact, it is the best place we have camped on the whole trip, and that’s a big statement to make.    

Most of Quagi’s camping spots incorporate individual areas with wide flat parking spots.  They were like little keyholes cut into the native bush which, at the end of spring, was flowering everywhere.  The trees were full of birds and the flowers threw splashes of red and yellow and blue wherever you looked.  Native bees hummed throughout the days.  It wasn’t busy and we there were several great sites we could choose from.  Most offered a small timber table beneath a corrugated iron roof.

The beach was beyond spectacular.  Our first glimpse took our breath away.  

 

Standing atop the sand dune revealed white, white sand and blue, green water, as clear as white-capped crystal.   It was a gentle sweep of a bay with small fun surf breaking across a wide sandbar, fringed with rock pools and large rocks.  There was the wreck of an old ship to the left, now almost indistinguishable from  the reef.  To the right, over a low rock shelf and around a point, an opening led out into another smaller bay. 

The sun shone upon as we swam in the cold water, seeing who could catch the small waves furthest into shore.  We lay on our towels and soaked up the warmth, watching Morrissey continually outwitted by seagulls.  

Even fishing brought rapid success, although we threw the fish back.  The 3 we caught were big enough to keep, we just didn’t know what they were. We’re used to fish that are sleek and silvery. These were lumpy, brown and ugly.  Our rule of thumb is – if it doesn’t look enticing, don’t eat it.  Shan’ showed one two a guy who was fishing near us.  He was German, hard to understand and yet to catch anything. He assured us that he’d eaten that type of fish the day before and that it was nice.  We remained uncertain and threw it back, much to his horror. (It didn’t hurt that we had a freezer full of meat). [p.s.  internet research a couple of days later revealed the fish to be a type of cod that is ‘fantastic eating’.  Oh well, our chicken kebabs were also tasty].

We slept soundly, awaking to a beautiful morning.  Shana didn’t want to leave.  The itinerary was pressing us again but, Shana figured, surely we could stay another day.  I wanted to stay also, but thought it best to remain on track.  This led to a stand-off that only scissors-paper-rock could untangle.   We rocked off and my rock blunted Shana’s scissors.

 

We drove sadly away, the crappy corrugated road and my continuing espousal of the benefits of timetabling offering little consolation.

We give Quagi Beach freecamp 8 stars out of 5.  That’s 5 out of 5 for the beach and the camping area + 1 for the toilet and shower facilities in the middle of nowhere, + another 2 because we really want to give another bonus point each.  We loved it.  Truly, go there, but stay more than a day.

NIGHT  263  -  BATHER’S PARADISE CARAVAN PARK, ESPERANCE.

If we thought that Quagi Beach was stunning, and we did, then nothing had prepared us for Esperance.  The colours of the water around Esperance are other worldly.  The blue is taken to ridiculous, eye-popping extremes, and it shimmers in shades that even the people who create paint colour cards couldn’t name.  It’s hard to believe you are still in Australia because water this clear and this beautiful surely only exists somewhere exotic and far way.  But as you drive around the Esperance cliff-tops beach after beach reveals pure white sand and impossible coloured water.  For beach lovers like us it was almost too much to take. 

 

We had to feel it on our skin.

We stopped at Twilight Bay, where a gorgeously rounded rock island cut out most of the swell.  (The island looked remarkably like a large version of The Flintstone’s house).  The water was cold but we giggled at each other anyway, diving into the crystal, drunk on perfect blue.  (I’m going to stop describing it now.  I am becoming too prosaic.  Look at the photo instead).

Ironically, however, the Bather’s Paradise Caravan Park was not near these beaches. While it was in Esperance, and near a beach, the beach fronting The Bather’s Paradise was totally unremarkable.  I don’t know why, but it lacked vibrancy of colour and the sand was strewn with seaweed.  It was okay but Shana and I couldn’t help but take the piss.  We’d just swum at a true bather’s paradise and this place wasn’t it.

Soo…after we live at Margaret River, or perhaps on the way through, Shana and I think we’d like to live here for a while.  They tell us it gets cold and windy, but the beauty of the place might just help us ignore that for a while. 

We’ll see.

I cannot give The Bather’s Paradise a score above zero. The park is okay but its false advertising does my head in, especially with a real bather’s paradise 5km up the road.  Truth in advertising – is that too much to ask?

NIGHT  264  -  CAPE LE GRANDE NATIONAL PARK.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

It ‘s Esperance beautiful, but even more so.  It’s totally unspoiled. All natural.  Big rocks and trees.  No buildings.

I refuse to stumble over words again.

It’s magnificent.

Like Kakadu. Like Uluru.

Go there if you can.

Feel your insides melt.

 

 

CODA

The south western corner of Western Australia has captured our hearts.  Without our house-stay pressuring us, we know we’d have stayed longer – possibly weeks longer.  But doing a trip such as we are you never really know what lies ahead.  We just wish we’d have known how beautiful the south west was in advance.  We’d then have spent less time above Perth, where we didn’t really form an affinity with the places or the coastline.  This trip has been fantastic, and we know we can’t have everything, but it saddens us that we had to rush through some of the most beautiful areas we’ve yet to see. 

Another time, we tell ourselves, and mean it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nights 236 - 256; Perth and Margies

NIGHT   236  -  MOORE RIVER BRIDGE REST AREA.

That we are staying in a roadside rest area when we are so near to several seaside towns says much about our impressions of the present surroundings. 

Earlier we swung through Cervantes and, although we love the name, a quick scan was all we needed – just more windswept sand-dunes and beaches full of reeking mountains of seaweed.

Next stop Lancelin, a surfing hotspot so they say.  Back Beach was pretty and we had a lovely swim but the surf was lame. (I’m beginning to think that actual surfable waves in Western Australia are a myth. It’s the big surfwear companies, isn’t it.  It’s all about selling product.  Just as very few people who buy clothes in a Kathmandu store ever require a Sherpa’s assistance , I believe very few people wearing Quicksilver/Billabong/Rip Curl gear in Western Australia need an actual surfboard.  It really is a pointless cultural artefact.  They may as well buy an inflatable air-mattress to sit on in the ocean.)

Leaving Lancelin we tried Ledge Point, about 20kms further towards Perth.  At Ledge Point we could smell the seaweed before we could see the town.  We negotiated the roundabout straight back out.

 

So, about 5kms off the coast, with several coastal towns nearby, we have elected to stay at a rest-stop alongside a busy road.  Here the river flows with a similar lack of surf but the grass is green and alive and free from the stench of decay. 

I give the Moore River Bridge Rest Area 2 stars out of 5.  The river has water and so do the toilets.

NIGHTS  237 – 243  -  BURNS BEACH CARAVAN PARK.

We stopped in at Yanchep on the way through to Perth, another seaside village and surfing hotspot that left us disappointed.  But enough of that. 

We felt sorry for Yanchep.  What was once a country surf town is now a vulgar knot of housing estates and tight circled roundabouts.  These estates go on for twenty or so kilometres, all with vapid names like Seaview Ridge or Ocean Breezes, and they spawn two-story beige brick boxes that chew up any possible yard space.  They are big and modern and lacking in anything idiosyncratic or interesting.  Then, suddenly, these beige boxes stop polluting the roadside, but only because last decade’s boxes have taken their place – with bricks noticeably redder and roofs less fashionably white, blue or black.  When combined with the proliferation of traffic lights and expanding low-rise shopping centres we knew we’d reached Perth’s far northern suburbs.

We’d also reached the need to make a decision.

There is no caravan park close to Perth that accepts dogs.   The Burns Beach Caravan Park is about 30kms away from Perth’s CBD and there were a few parks out east (in the ‘burbs) about the same distance away, and we knew nothing about any of them.  But we figured that the north side has Perth’s beaches and so, being the optimist I continue to be, the possibility of surfable waves continued to set our agenda.  We booked into The Burns Beach for two nights.

 

The two nights became four nights which became seven when we learned there was a ‘stay seven nights pay for six’ deal.  So our first week in Perth involved the daily commute out of Burns Beach toward whatever the weather and wind allowed.  For example:

·         Okay, I’ll get this out of the way first.  The surf was rubbish.  We checked it most every day, driving the strip along past Scarborough, along past Trigg, along past Cottesloe, and not once did my board get wet.  Our bodies occasionally got wet, sheltered from the wind behind the breakwall at Cottesloe or swimming at a couple of dog beaches we’d found, but the board stayed snug in its bag as I rejected the tepid shorebreaks on offer.  But Morrissey frolicked along various northside beaches and he’s such a beachy doofus that it always brightened up the day.

·         Shanzie loves a market and she read that one of Perth’s largest monthly markets was being held while we were nearby.  It was at Kalamundra, a town in the Perth Hills about an hour away.  If I’m honest, I don’t mind a market myself, especially when held in picturesque surrounds.  So we chugged our way up into the hills.  It was a good market, if a little too skewed toward Christmas which I think is ages away but probably isn’t.  It was very crowded, which freaked Mozza out.  I had to sit with him in the shade out of the way while Shan’ looked around and then she did the same.  He’s a good people dog though, enchanting everyone who passed by with his smiling face and panting tongue.  Shan bought a few things, I had a greasy  bacon and egg roll, Moz ate crap off the ground and all was right with the world again.

·         We had a day deep in the suburbs getting a part replaced on the ‘bago.  This part has been faulty since Townsville, where Winnebago said it wasn’t under warranty.  Some diligent work by Shana and a terse email or two convinced Winnebago that the part was indeed covered under warranty and they agree to replace it.  But we were a thousand kms from Townsville by then and the next Winnebago dealership was in Perth.  Given that the part wasn’t integral – the fault caused an annoying light to flash on and off throughout the night – we elected to wait until we reached Perth.  It took all day for us to get to the Winnebago dealership and for them to replace the part but it was worth it - it no longer feels like we are sleeping in a disco.

 

·         People had told us that Perth’s city centre is a bit sterile and ‘lacks soul’.  I’m not sure I’d go that far but there isn’t much there to capture the imagination.  The malls are full of generic could-be-anywhere shops and there’s no real ‘city’ feel.  I don’t think it’s fair to make any sweeping appraisal though.  I think it could be a place that reveals itself over time.  The street that was built like old time London was kind of cool.

·         We decided that we were going to stay put for the day; that we didn’t want to pack everything up and spend hours in traffic again.  As bizarre as it sounds, we wanted a day off.  The day we chose was a Sunday.  It turned out to be the first Sunday of the month.  Or, to be even more precise, it was the first Sunday of Spring, which probably doesn’t mean too much to too many people.  It is, however, a highly significant day in Perth if you’re the type of person who desires to catch (gather) abalone. Now, we had a great seaview from the back of the ‘bago over the cliffs and across the ocean.  There was only a walking path between us and the drop into the water.  Every morning we pulled the curtains aside to embrace this view.  On this Sunday, however, when we pulled the curtains aside, we were confronted by people bustling along the path dressed in old, ill-fitting wetsuits, some with goggles and snorkel covering their faces as if in the water.  They rushed along just beyond our window carrying large sacks.  There were dozens of them.  At first we thought it was some weird charity event.   A fancy dress walk or something where this year’s theme was wetsuits or divers or things aquatic.  But getting up and looking over the edge of the cliffs revealed dozens more people in the water, all walking or wading or swimming along the edges of the rocks.  Most were in wetsuits but some had ordinary street clothes on, sodden and wet.  Again, all had sacks.

By asking around we discovered that the wet and the wetsuited were collecting abalone for the first time since last December.  It was part of an annual abalone frenzy generated by strict regulations.  These regulations allow 20 abalone per person, but they can only be collected between the hours of 7 – 8 am on five consecutive Sundays, beginning on the first Sunday in Spring, (which was today). That’s it.  Five hours over five weeks and then no more legal abalone until next year. We awoke nearer to 8am when it was almost over.  People were scurrying in and around the rocks and filling bags, shouting to each other and at each other.  Whole families lined the beaches and scoured through crags – grandmas and grandpas with sacks, toddlers with sacks, teens with sacks, mums, dads, aunties, etc, all with sacks weighted down and seeking more.  Then 8am arrived and everybody exited the water. By 8:05 there wasn’t a wetsuit or an abalone sack to be seen.

We give the Burn’s Beach Caravan Park 3 stars out of 5.  We had a grass site which at times felt like we were poked into a paddock but it had fantastic views.  The toilets were a hike away though and dingy.  The café next door had curly fries that I fell in love with and can still taste now.

NIGHT  244  -  JULIENNE’S HOUSE, CHIDLOW.

Chidlow is another pretty ‘mountain’ town high in the Perth hills.  Julienne and Shana read for their PhDs together at UQ.  They hadn’t seen each other in over 10 years.  A catch-up was overdue.

So, in a rammed earth house beneath the trees we ate fresh salmon and discussed literary theory and the demise of left-wing politics.  We tipped a young boy’s car collection onto a rug and zoomed our favourites across the floor.  We slept in the ‘bago parked on the neighbours land because Julienne’s driveway was too steep. 

 

 

NIGHTS  245  -  247  -  AMY’S HOUSE, KELMSCOTT.

Kelmscott is a suburb like you’d find in any capital city.  It’s a long way from the city and the rent is comparatively cheap.  It’s not the prettiest of suburbs, or the most progressive, but it’s where Amy, Shana’s cousin, lives, and that was good enough for us.  

With Amy we got to do the tourist thing with someone to show us around.  She took us to Fremantle and we fell in love with it.  Fremantle is old and funky and vibrant and just a little seedy.  What more could you want in a city?  We drank cider surrounded by retro chairs and water views; we went to Freo jail and took a tour with an ex-correctional officer whose humour was as dark and scary as any of the cells; and we balanced out healthy food with unhealthy treats at the weekly farmer’s market.  We then went to Kings Park where Amy and Shana struck modelling poses against the magnificent backdrop of Perth’s cityscape.  We wandered the botanical gardens, Shana and Amy dissecting the various weddings we were witness to.  We then went home, sat on the back deck, and continued drinking cider while dismantling and reconstructing family history.  I was happy.  I cadged the occasional cigarette.

 

 The next day it was back to Freo again, lazing on a southside dog beach, messing about and getting burned.  The water was cool and clear, unlike our heads after a night on the slops. 

 

It was a busy two days (and three nights).  Thanks Amy and Ash for being tour guides.

 

NIGHT  248 -  LAKE CLIFTON CARAVAN PARK

Today was Remembrance Day but we didn’t realise it.  It was while we were in Woolworths that it became apparent.

 We were pushing our trolley along the cold foods aisle when a voice came over the loudspeaker, first reciting the ANZAC ode and then requesting a minutes silence. Everybody stopped in the middle of what they were doing.  There were three other trolleys in our aisle and, in the act of being respectful and silent, the scene looked like something from a movie where everything becomes somehow frozen in time.  Some people were facing the shelves, others stood behind their trolleys.  I was half into the butter fridge when the Last Post sounded, allowing myself only to straighten up but not move. Shana was stuck reading the labels of dips.  For a minute the air settled cold around us and the only sound was the whir of the fridge motor.  Then the loudspeaker said ‘thank you’ and, as if everyone had suddenly defrosted, we all started moving about again, taking up our conversations where we left them.

Shopping done, we’d yet to decide where we were going.  We’d joked with Amy and Ash that we didn’t always have plans and how liberating that could be but the day proved otherwise.  Sometimes not having plans is a pain in the arse.

Our original idea was to go to Rockingham but it seemed too close so we opted for Mandurah instead.  Mandurah looked beautiful with its bridge over the flatwater and it was there we did our shopping.  Alas, no dog friendly places existed anywhere near anything nice, so we kept going.  We never doubted that we’d find something.  Congratulating ourselves for our spontaneity a search on Wikicamps revealed that the Miami Caravan Park was nearby, and it received good reviews.  We smiled to each other across the cab. 

But the Miami Beach Caravan Park was having a tree-lopping day.  We pulled in behind a large tip-truck.  Up in the tree-canopy men with chainsaws and safety caps were sawing through large branches while men below collected and ground the branches into woodchips.  The chainsaw shrieked and whined and the chipper growled and crunched and noise layered upon noise and it was exactly what we didn’t need after a weekend of alcoholic excess.  We reversed out and drove on. Aimlessly.  A bit less sure.

A sign along the highway directed us towards the Dawesville Caravan Park.  Demonstrating admirable assertiveness I wheeled in without even consulting Wikicamps (or Shana).  From the entrance all we could see were very old caravans with fibro annexes, their wheels removed, axles now resting up on bricks. It indicated a park full of permanents and semi-permanents.  A woman met us at the office, her body openly losing a battle with hay fever.  Her red, puffy eyes could hardly see and her nose leaked continuously.  She told us she’d locked herself out of the office.  She wasn’t really sure how.  “Find the space you want” she sniffled “the hubby will come and collect the money later.  There’s a grass site and concrete slab.  Take your pick”. 

The grass site had a woman lying next to it, an empty four pack of Bacardi Breezers beside her.  The concrete slab was cracked, uneven and across the road from the woman.  Beside it sprawled a young guy on an old weather-beaten lounge outside his annex, a cigarette in his mouth and an overflowing ashtray on the ground beside him.  Although this reads like cheap characterisation I assure you it was real.  And they seemed to be having a conversation, shouting their sentences across the road. We drove between them.

Then around a loop and straight back out the gate.

We didn’t even stop to tell the woman we weren’t going to stay.

The Lake Clifton Caravan Park is rural and serene.  It could even be described as boring.  We found it about 15kms further down the road.  There’s not many residents here.  There’s lots of vacant spaces, probably because the park is a tad pointless.  It provides no access to Lake Clifton but, if you park on one of the two sites up the hill down the back, you can glimpse Lake Clifton through the trees.  So that’s where we parked.  We stopped and glimpsed at Lake Clifton through our windows and waited for the darkness to tell us the day had ended.

 

We give the Lake Clifton Caravan Park 2 stars out of 5.  It was open, non-threatening, quiet and accepted dogs.

NIGHT  249  -  PINE TREES REST STOP, BETWEEN BUNBURY AND BUSSELTON.

 

 

This place came with a caveat that it is a known haunt where local crystal meth addicts stop and imbibe.  There was nobody there when we drove near though, so we wheeled in and ‘chanced our arm’.  During the late afternoon a Jucy van pulled in beside us, but it proved to be driven by French tourists rather than meth addicts.  Just on dark a rented Toyota Corolla with a fold out tent on roof-racks also wheeled in.  Two brawny guys got out and, although I was concerned about how they would both fit into a small fold out tent 2mtrs off the ground, I wasn’t concerned about their motives toward us or toward life in general.

There was no surf in Bunbury today.

I give the Pine Trees Rest Stop 1 star out of 5.  It has been crystal meth free for at least 1 day and counting.

NIGHT  250  -  FOUR SEASONS CARAVAN PARK, BUSSELTON.

250 nights on the road is something to celebrate and there is nothing that shouts celebration to us, confined as we are in a small space, more than these two words – ‘dog spa’.

That’s right, the Four Seasons Caravan Park is not only dog friendly, it houses one of the few dog spas in the world (as far as we know).  We know that Morrissey can’t really help it that he loves to smell disgusting. We know it’s not his fault that he seeks out the worst smelling places he can find and then rolls in them, over and over and over.  We know it, but we don’t really like it.  But fate has positioned us so that we can spend night 250 with a clean smelling dog.  Of course we accepted.

The dog spa cost eight bucks.  It was not well maintained, the water well holding the combined stench of a hundred filthy mutts that had gone before us, releasing a face-melting fug when the lid was lifted.   It worked okay though, with warmed water and a rich lather of bubbles.  It came with a bottle of shampoo and a separate conditioner, just like at the best salons.  Moz stood there, reluctantly compliant while Shanzie did all the work.  He spent the night smelling clean and fresh, (if still slightly damp).  It was nose-joy for an evening and, to set the bar even higher for night 300, I’m hoping to somehow retard his flatulence. 

 

We’d spent the day in Busselton.  Here an old man in bib and brace overalls barely covering his belly drove us to the end of the Southern Hemisphere’s longest jetty, the train clunking and jerking all the way.  There we took a tour below water-level, a teenage guide pointing out various fish and different types of coral.  We then rode the train back again, dismissing the romantic idea of walking back hand in hand while laughing and pointing toward dolphins just like they do on the front of the brochures.

 

We give the Four Seasons Caravan Park 2 stars out of 5.  There was nothing wrong with it but, besides the dog spa, it had little to recommend it either.

NIGHTS  251 & 252  -  CAVES CARAVAN PARK, YALLINGUP.

 

If ever you’ve wondered what impact the sport of surfing has had on society in general then Caves Caravan Park offers a clear example. 

The Caves Caravan Park is over 100 years old.  Not the buildings - they’re reasonably modern - but the park’s actual existence.  It is opposite to, and owned by, the very plush and exclusive Caves House, as it has always been.  Caves House was built to cater for the well-heeled and time-rich as a place to stay while journeying out to look at the many large caves in the area.   This was in the horse and cart days.  The Caves Caravan Park was originally cleared as the space allotted to the servants and staff who accompanied these idle rich.  At the time there was no thought of going to the beach just a kilometre away.  Why would anyone want to struggle down the cliffs to stand on a wind-blown stretch of reefs and sand?

 Over time the caves continued to be a popular tourist destination and the caravan park began catering to the middle classes who came to visit – those with a tent or a caravan and enough money to do the trip without being able to afford to stay in the mainhouse.  Still few people felt they needed to visit the oceanside.

Then, in the early 60s, surfing became popular and the beach became attractive and desirable, if only initially to the young and the radical.  But as the young and radical became older and established the sport exploded.  Surfing became the coolest of the cool and you didn’t necessarily have to be adept at it, or even to surf at all, to feel part of this new cool clique.  You could simply buy the lifestyle by living near the beach.

Now most people want to live near the beach.  In fact, the beach has come to symbolise freedom and fun and is a cornerstone of Australian identity.  In Australia, living near the beach is symbol of success, the closer the better.

And thus the poor old Caves Beach Caravan Park has become supplanted as a ‘go to’ place in the area.  Yallingup is now a famous surfing destination with a new and modern caravan park built a stone’s throw from the main reef break.  Only 1 kilometre from the same break, the Caves Beach Caravan Park is now considered too far away, too inconvenient.  It now has to accept dogs to attract patronage and we were thankful that it did.  For us dog owners, being allowed to camp so close to several quality breaks is a rare treat.

And, in another glorious piece of synchronicity, the break that was working the best while we were there – Rabbits – is right in front of the dog beach section of Yallingup.  I could (and did) surf the glassy little right hand beach barrels while Shana and Moz did what they do along the beach.  Two days in a row.  Happy times!

 

But one can’t surf all day (especially at an age when able to apply for pensioner’s insurance) so, after the morning surf, we took a day trip into Dunsborough and up to Cape Naturaliste lighthouse.  Dunsborough is a beautiful little town.  I often say “I could live here” about places I’m attracted to, but Shana rarely does.  She’s more discerning than I.  We both said it about Dunsborough though.  We even looked into real estate windows to compare house prices and in the local paper to find a job (Shana would get a job at a winery cellar door, I’d become a groundskeeper/handyman, possibly at the same winery).

 It still lingers as a strong desire within us.

We give the Caves Caravan Park 2 ½ stars out of 5.  It had an actual old school games room complete with pinnies and a space invader/pacman/galaxian sit down arcade table.  It had an ensuite on every site.  It also had magpies that swooped to protect their young and a rogue dugite that was known to sun itself along a main path, but these were both over the other side of the park and, whilst heeding the warnings we gave them little thought.

NIGHTS  253 – 256  -  MARGARET RIVER CARAVAN PARK

While writing for this blog a man has just been killed by a shark at Gracetown.  The news is tragic.  I feel for those left behind, especially his wife and kids.  If the attack had of occurred two weeks ago I doubt I’d feel so affected.  I’d have felt sad and a bit spooked, but I wouldn’t have the attachment to it that I do now.  That’s because exactly a week before the day of the attack I was surfing the same coastline, about 500mtr south of where the attack occurred.  So now in my mind I can see the break he was at; I can see where he would have been sitting in relation to the reefs and jutting rocks.  I can see Gracetown itself, the small cluster of houses cut into the hillside, the general store, the jetty and boat ramp, the bay, North Point, South Point, the petrol pumps with a hand-written sign saying they’d run out of diesel, the silver metal phonebox with the orange Telstra logo.  I can see the intersection to get to Lefties, turning left pass the small estate of new houses with no lawns, following the recently tarred road up over the rise and down into the carpark.  I can see the carpark, half-full on top of the headland, people sitting on their bonnets checking the several breaks visible from up there.  And mostly I can see the monument that has been erected at the top of the stairs that leads to Lefties.  It’s a monument where Shana and I stopped and reflected about how good life can be and how easily it can be taken from you.  The monument is a memorial to a fatal shark attack that occurred there 3 years ago.  It is lovingly crafted, incorporating a stone-walled shade shelter in the shape of a surfboard.  The monument mentioned in its carved epitaph, just as recent newsprint mentioned in this week’s paper, that the surfer died while doing something that he loved.  I get it.  The waves I caught around Gracetown where fun.  It is spring and the waves were small but they had surprising power. They drove me faster and harder than I thought they would.

It really is easy to fall in love with the surf along the Margaret River coastline.  But it’s a dangerous love, I’m sure we all realise that.

Because the Margaret River coastline is still remote.  It is untamed, wild and desolate.  Sharks live and hunt there.  It’s a well-known fact.  But, even so, many thousands of surfers can say what I’m about to say -  I’m so very thankful it wasn’t me. 

R.I.P.  Chris Boyd.