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.