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.