Nights 288 - 325; Melbourne to Tassie.

NIGHTS  288  -  293.    SAMMIE’S PLACE, ST KILDA

Christmas in trendy St Kilda. 

We arrived to a decorated and festive townhouse with a fridge full of party leftovers – food and bevvie.

 We mingled with millions of Melbournians in the Vic Markets at 6am on Christmas Eve.  We had a seafood lunch and a roast pork dinner on Christmas Day.

We zipped around town in Sam’s little black car.

 We walked to the beach and the bay and watched penguins wedge between rocks.  We watched kite-surfers catch the wind.

We went to Ackland Street twice, sampling different cakes each time. 

 We trammed it to the city, trammed it home, left the ‘bago parked in the arsiest spot possible – a double parking space right outside the front door.

We hired DVDs from a local machine and watched movies we’d never pay cinema prices to see.

We put our jumpers on, took them off, put them on, took them off…seemingly ad infinitum.

Thanks Sam, Tanya and Briony. 

We sure did like your funky cool pad.

NIGHTS   294  -  313.  COBURG HOUSE SIT.

The travelling trio of Shana, Moz and myself stayed put for a while and swelled in number.  We’d organised a house sit in Coburg for three weeks, agreeing to look after a few animals while there.  It seemed easy enough; a whippet, a kelpie, a cranky old cat, a six week old kitten, and three chooks with unclipped wings and a non-roofed pen. 

The first 21 days were the worst.

Except for the chooks, they were all inside pets.  The whippet was cool.  She’d lay on the lounge.  Moz was trained enough to be manageable.  The cranky old cat was absent most of the time, not too happy about the strangers in her house.  It was the kitten and the kelpie that nearly drove us crazy.

On her own the kitten was gorgeous; funny and friendly and purringly soft.  On her own the kelpie was a schizo.  Acquired from a shelter, she’d been subjected to abuse and now had ‘trust issues’.  The kitten teased the kelpie.  The kelpie chased the kitten.  The kitten would jump on the lounge then on to the table.  The kelpie would follow her.  The kitten was tiny and caused little commotion.  The kelpie was a large, destructive force.

It would happen every night, whenever we let the kelpie inside. Things would be crashed into; things would be knocked over. The kitten led the way.  The kelpie followed.  It was never pleasant.

 

 

Menagerie aside, Coburg was good.  Todd came down for a while and we went on a short road trip to Lorne, drinking bourbon and beer and eating late-night sausage sangas at a sneaky free camp along the Great Ocean Road.  Shana’s friends – Louise and Sharelle – came down at the same time.  It just worked out that way.  They hit Melbourne, ‘melted the plastic’ as they say, shopped up a storm.

 

We met up with Graham (ex-boss, ex-brother-in-law) and Jo, a couple who I trekked around Europe with.  We hadn’t caught up for a while.  They’re living in Melbourne. Naturally we rehashed the past, embellishing where possible.   We also discovered each-others present.

But we were all glad to get back on the road.  Moz, who probably had nightmares that we would leave him there, jumped into the ‘bago and wouldn’t budge.  There was no way he was going back into that yard.

By the time we’d left one chook had died.  We couldn’t pinpoint an individual culprit – we think it was a peer group thing.  The chook must have been still roaming in the morning, out of sight among the bushes.  We gave all three dogs a terse talking to and cleaned up the mess.  Shana had to do a nightime dash on the Vespa, a trip to the dump-bin beside Coburg Markets.  There she disposed of the carcass as if posting a letter.

Only losing one animal amongst three weeks of chaos – we call that a success.

See ya Coburg.

 

NIGHTS  314 & 315  -  PENINSULA HOLIDAY PARK, DROMANA

We are in the middle of a Melbourne heatwave.  This is the third day in a row above 40 degrees.  We finished our Coburg house-sit and sought refuge by the coast – any coast would do, as long as it accepted dogs during the school holidays.  We opted for the Mornington Peninsula as both Dromana and Hastings have dog friendly caravan parks.  Of the two, Shana chose Dromana.  She’s got an aunty who was born there.  That’s as good a reason as any.

The park abuts the main freeway and, as we have come to expect, the ‘dog section’ abuts the fence that abuts the freeway.  It’s 11pm and still too hot to go to bed.  The air conditioner is blasting but throwing cold air as weekly as a toddler blowing out birthday candles.  It roars loudly into the night, but not loud enough to drown out the sounds of passing traffic. 

Today we went to Portsea back beach – another futile attempt at seeking rideable surf.  Portsea is spectacular.  It’s part of a national park so dogs aren’t allowed, ‘not even in your vehicle’ the signs proclaim.  We snuck in anyway, and ate lunch perched on the bluff overlooking Bass Straight.  The sun seared onto the ‘bago and I had to at least get wet.  Shanzie understood, volunteering to stay with Moz.  It was just too hot to leave him in the ‘bago alone and we couldn’t let him out at all.  I negotiated the steep decent to the water’s edge and joined the throng between the flags.

 A quick dip makes all the difference.

We then left Portsesa, searching for a dog friendly beach, without success.  During summer, the Mornington Peninsula doesn’t even pretend to be dog friendly.  If the sun’s out, then take your dog and piss off the beach.

But nothing breeds anarchy like over-regulation. 

We saw a spot alongside Port Phillip Bay that was set back off the water in a grove of trees.  The grass was long and uninviting, but it offered shade and a quick dash to the water.  Out came the camping mat and the folding chairs, our current books and Moz’s long wire.  We spent the afternoon beneath the trees or in the water, including Moz.  There was no outrage from the other people present.  Nobody screamed at the sight of a small wet dog on the shore.  If anything, he brought smiles to faces.  Parents and children alike couldn’t resist patting his happy panting head.

 

The next day was just as hot but less frustrating.  We’d chosen a remote place to go and simply decided to ignore any dog regulation signs.  The place we chose was Flinders, along the bottom unpopular edge of the peninsular.  Unlike the jostle of Mornington’s bay suburbs, Flinders carpark was half empty.  During the day we countered the furious sun by lolling about in the cold water ocean.  The cool change arrived about 4pm, after we’d had a little sleep on the soft grassy verge that led up from the shoreline.  We stretched, sleepy but refreshed.   A lovely day was topped off by a Weiss bar on the way home.

We give the Peninsula Holiday Caravan Park two stars out of 5.  To access the amenities block was like a maze and, somehow this was their fault, beside us was a young oppositionally defiant boy who took a liking to the door of the ‘bago, wanting to swing on it and crawl through it continually.  He kept escaping the watch of his parents to do so.  Ahh, but we are teachers who didn’t take a shine to his mischief at all.  The teacher death stare soon sent a message that a sharp “no” or two reinforced.  We kept him at bay but would have preferred his parents to put Morrissey’s lead on him every evening.

NIGHT  316  -  HANN RECREATIONAL RESERVE, BALNARRING.

Spent the day killing time as much as anything.  We are booked to go to Tassie on Monday and want to stay away from Melbourne until then.  We’re trying to save money.  As such, we are hanging around the peninsula until we can spot a dodgy free camp for the night.  It’s overcast and grey so, unlike the last few days, the water has lost much of its attraction.

It doesn’t stop me trawling the beaches though, hoping to jag a wave.  But the song remains the same – Rye, Sorrento, Port Leo; all of them possibilities, none of them any good.  Over then to searching for off-leash dog areas, our other primary motivation on the peninsular.

 We knew of one at Hastings.  We hoped we might do the dodgy there.  It turned out to be a large expanse of grass, recently mown and clumped with clippings, lying forlornly along the mangrove fringed bank of the Western Port Inlet.  And mangroves, as you may well know, make for a rich ecosystem but are unpleasant places to hang around.  We threw the ball and Moz chased it until he was ready to collapse.  We then drove off, toward Hann Recreational Reserve, at the bottom of the barrel and a place where we joked I might get lucky.

Hann Recreational Reserve has a fenced dog run and a half-working amenities block.  The female toilet is fenced off, a sign warning of the presence of asbestos.  I’m not sure why it’s only the female toilet that’s supposedly dangerous as both sides look the same to me.  But the male door is open and welcoming and, according to various net sites, it’s a popular place to cruise and partake in male homosexual acts.

I think I got cruised.

There I was, cooking kebabs on the barbie provided.  It was clean and, importantly to a cheapskate like me, saved using our own LPG.  There were two wheelie bins next to the BBQ area, the toilet block was about 30mtr further down the hill.  As I cooked a guy walked (sauntered) past me towards the bins.  I heard the lid open and looked up. “Nice evening” the guy said.  “Yeah” said I.  He looked directly into my eyes and then walked to the toilets.  He had a small bottle of orange juice in his hand (perhaps it was mango, maybe passionfruit).  That seemed odd to me.  Why would anyone take a drink with them to the toilet? 

Shanzie was assembling salad in the ‘bago.  As soon as he turned the corner I rushed over to her.

“Didja see that?”

She had, and she was amazed at how unpleasant the guy looked.  It wasn’t just the greasy mat of brown hair, the flabby white face or the man-boobs juggling beneath his dirty blue t-shirt.  It was as much the track suit pants and the thongs and the fact that he looked like he’d just finished mowing the lawn.  “I doubt he’d be appealing to either sex” she said.

Now, I’m not sure how these things work, but he was back before the kebabs had cooked, and they cook quickly.  His juice bottle was about a third empty.  He walked past quickly, said nothing, eyes downcast.

We figured he must have struck out, but we remained confused as to how it all works.  Does he turn up just in case, on the off chance that someone like-minded would also arrive?  Did he think that was me? Or is there a pre-determined time to meet that is somehow broadcast to all those interested?  All we know was that he was there too long to have just gone to the toilet and that he’d had a slug or two of juice.

 

Funnily enough, about an hour later, another guy arrived who seemed to be loitering with intent.  He had no juice but he made a bit of a show when heading to the toilet.   He also hung there for a while, and looked disappointed upon return.  Again we speculated.  Maybe the two were supposed to meet up but he was an hour late.  Or maybe the other guy was an hour early.  Or maybe, like its ability to fade curtains and confuse cows, daylight savings plays havoc with the timing of homosexual trysts.

As it was I waited until the bright light morning before I went back in there.

If the guy was trying to hit on me I give the Balnarring Recreational Reserve 4 ½ stars out of 5.  The guy was mistaken and had no chance, but the offer was understandable.  I’m at my most entrancing when cooking kebabs.  If he wasn’t hitting on me I give the place 1 star out of 5.  Why?  What’s wrong with me??  I can be cute in the right light.

NIGHT  317  -  THE ROAD BESIDE SANDRIDGE LIFESAVING CLUB, SANDRIDGE.

The ebb and flow of the dodgy free camp continues. 

One more sleep until we catch the ferry.  It leaves early in the morning though so we need stay somewhere nearby.  We need quick and easy access.

We were not alone in this logic.

Wikicamps, our all-knowing real life equivalent to the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, provides the information for all who seek  it – go to the Surfridge Lifesaving Club carpark.  It’s totally illegal to stay there overnight but it is safe and close to the ferry.  People risk it.

We thought we might sneak in.

We thought we could somehow make the ‘bago blend in with the surroundings.  Escape notice.

We had no idea.

When we arrived, there were at least a dozen campervans already there; several little Jucy type vans, a Coaster bus or two, three full blown motor homes like us.  There was even a 4wd motorhome that sat so high on its tall skinny wheels that it looked like the spawn of a shed and a monster truck. 

We just parked on the side of the road, blatant and open in our illegality.   If we were to be moved along at least we’d be part of a convoy.

 

I give the side of the road 5 stars out of 5.  It was a well-constructed side of a road.  It had no potholes.  It was wide enough so that cars didn’t slam into us.  As far as sides of roads go, it was perfect, so full marks to whoever built it.

 

NIGHT  318  -  ABEL TASMAN CARAVAN PARK, DEVONPORT.

The Spirit of Tasmania is a large red vehicle ferry that travels 360kms in 9 hours.

It’s not quick.

For people, that’s nine hours to read or watch TV or fill in time somehow relatively comfortably.  If you’re a little ginger dog, however, its nine hours of being shoved in a cage barely big enough to stand in, alongside motors that groan and howl continuously as they propel the ship forward.  From behind the glass, when I got bored with my book or just wanted a stroll, I could choose a different deck to visit or go outside for air.  Poor Moz could only lay cramped and yelp, adding his voice to those of the other seven dogs caged around him.  We hated to do it but there is no other way.

Thankfully the sea was flat; the trip pleasant.

We humans could have been in a train for all the rocking we felt.

We arrived in Devonport, collected our drained and distraught little dog, and drove straight to the caravan park.  We made not a single detour, instead following the request given when we booked.  “Please come straight from the ship” they had asked, not wanting to extend their office hours for too long.  We complied, even though we had no food to eat.

We had no food for two reasons.  First, everything fresh gets confiscated at Quarantine.  In an ‘up yours’ to healthy types everywhere, it appears that ‘fresh isn’t best’ because it possibly harbours pests and mites and agricultural nasties.  What‘s best is frozen.  If it’s frozen then it is safe.  This brings us to reason two.

 The second reason we had no food was because LP Gas is highly flammable so LPG bottles must be totally deactivated during transit.  However, the fridge (and freezer) require LPG to function.  No LPG means no cold air.  So things defrost and spoil. (Or so we though, but it turned out that, because the fridge door remain closed for the duration, nothing defrosted much at all.  Live and learn huh).

Anyway, once booked in, it was out of the park and off for our first Tasmanian excursion – straight to the nearby McDonalds.  Here, sat beneath the golden arches, we consumed our last meal of the day, thereby continuing a day of food ‘treats’ over substance.

I give the Abel Tasman Caravan Park 2 stars out of 5.  I hope they got home in time for their evening meal.

 NIGHT  319  -  PRESERVATION BAY, PENGUIN.

Seriously, how could you not want to stay at a place called Penguin?  It drew Shana and I to it as soon as we read a map.  It was only a waddle from Devonport and had a legal free camp right on the water’s edge.  For us, there was no decision to be made.

 

As you would expect in Australia, a town with the name ‘Penguin’ must surely be home to a big, fibreglass penguin.  And so it is.  There are also many smaller penguins throughout the town – we counted 33 just along the main street.  Penguins hold up bins and wave from shopfronts and spin in the wind from rooves.  Apparently there’s real penguins here to, but we didn’t see any.  Secreted in rocks along the foreshore, they only come out at night. 

Also along the foreshore, between the beach and almost anything else, winds a train track.  For most of the day this track lies dormant, as if a relic from the bygone past.  But sometimes you hear what sounds like thunder rumbling in the distance, then sound gives way to movement as, seemingly from nowhere, a freight train grinds and shrieks and shudders past, 10 mtr away from the ‘bago window.  Tranquillity is torn aside for 50 or so container lengths.  Five minutes later the track lies dormant again, as if it hasn’t hosted a train in years.  This occurs about four times a day.  It scares Morrissey in the middle of the night; makes him jump up onto our bed and bury his snout between us.

 It scared the crap out of us also.

If only.

Preservation Bay is idyllic and beautiful.  As our introduction into free camping in Tassie it is almost perfect.  Almost.  If only it had a toilet.  If only it didn’t have a freight train heart.  3 ½ stars out of 5.

NIGHT  320  -  BOAT HARBOUR BEACH CARPARK

There’s enough people camping here to indicate that it’s not a secret, but I don’t know how well known it is in broad terms.  It’s a sanctioned dodgy free camp, if that makes any sense.  Technically Boat Harbour beach has never been officially recognised as a ‘free-camp’ area, but the locals are okay with RVs filling the grassy verges beside the foreshore.  In fact, not only will they not make a fuss, they send a welcoming committee, pamphlets in hand, informing of businesses in the area and their opening hours. They want tourism and understand that even though nobody has paid for the camping space, people spend money when they feel welcome.  We felt welcome.  We spent money.

The place is spectacular.

 

Shana was pointing excitedly as we negotiated the skinny downhill road into Boat Harbour.  I followed the line of her finger and saw immediately the source of her excitement.  Like a jewel between the trees turquoise water glistened, almost as magically as it did in Esperance. (Esperance has become our gauge against which all other beaches are now measured).  This was unexpected.  While still beautiful, the ocean so far hadn’t been startling.

 It was now.

We almost prayed that there’d be a camping spot available (but we couldn’t work out to which deity we should address our request).

We snuck in next to the fence, the furthest camper from the unofficial ‘okay’ area.  Possibly we were encroaching upon day visit spaces.  We didn’t care.  We were a bit in the open and out in the wind but we were happy to be slotted in.  We weren’t going to move.  Nope.  It would take a tow truck and a couple of Schwarzeneggers to pry us away.  We’d duke it out if we had to.

 

Of course we didn’t have to.  The evening sparkled as beautifully as any evening I’ve ever seen.  The wind dropped completely and the waning sun still coddled us with warmth.  It was a great time to be outside talking with the neighbours. The day gentled away and the stars quietly appeared.  Breathtaking.

I give the Boat Harbour car park no stars out of 5. (But secretly it’s fantastic). It’s just a carpark. (It is possibly the most scenic carpark in the world).  You’re best going elsewhere.  (Get there even if you have to raffle of a kid or something).

NIGHT  321  -  MARRAWAH BEACH CAMPING AREA.

I’m still easily lured by possibility.  I guess most surfing types are.  You have to be when the promise of perfection is totally out of your control.  It’s the thought that you’ll arrive somewhere and all the conditions needed will align – the swell, the wind, the tide, the weather.  It’s the thought that you could pull in somewhere and, through pure assed luck, score a break at its absolute best, a day the locals will talk about for years to come.

I’m sure it happens.

It was these thoughts that whistled in me as we drove toward Marrawah, a rugged surf town on Tasmania’s north west coast.

But it’s yet to happen to me.

The day shone with clear bright sunshine and the breeze blew lightly off-shore.  Lovely.  There was absolutely no swell though.  The thunderous Indian Ocean that was supposed to charge angrily into Marrawah piddled meekly onto the sand.

 

 Whatever. 

We still swam like cold water salmon and enjoyed the sun on our towels.  We took Moz for long walks along the beach.  Things could be much worse.  So what if the wetsuit stayed dry…again.

The camping area had way more vehicles and tents than people to fill them.  It took us a while to discover why.  The surfers in the know, we discovered, left before sunrise.  Carloads of them.  They went to a beach called ‘Lighthouse’, about 10 minutes away. 

We didn’t know it existed.

Lighthouse Beach, so the legend goes, catches all swells.  It’s a rare day when it doesn’t have a wave.  We heard about this when the surfers returned in the afternoon, filling the tents and vans that had remained empty all day.  They lay on the grass exhausted and spoke of a day of clean waves with few people out.  I didn’t want to hear it.  In fact, I think I’d rather talk to the grey nomads and discuss the merits of inverters versus solar panels or compare fuel consumptions.  I’ve had lots of practice doing that and I’ve never come away from those conversations as deflated and envious as I did from talking that afternoon.

I give Marrawah Beach Camping Area 3 stars out of 5.  It’s really just a tar cul-de-sac before the main carpark, with grass verges off each side and a grassy hill at the end.  Cars generally park along the road, tents are erected on the grass.  It’s functional but feels too utilitarian for the wild and natural environment surrounding it.

NIGHT  322  -  ROCKY CAPE TAVERN CAMP GROUND, ROCKY CAPE.

Stanley’s a weird place.  The ‘nut’ overpowers everything and seems to make the town hunch down beneath it. 

 

It has many beautifully restored weatherboard buildings (many of which are B & Bs) but it doesn’t feel welcoming, or at least it didn’t to me.  Maybe it stemmed from our breakfast experience - here I quote Shana on Trip Advisor:

Visiting Stanley for a day we decided on Brunch at Moby Dicks. We were welcomed by the woman behind the counter & she said someone would come to the table to take our order. The menu looked good & advertised "our own waffles" - not my usual choice but something made fresh always appeals. My partner chose scrambled eggs & bacon (his standard - he says he likes to compare). Shortly before we ordered it all kicked off. A man stormed out of the kitchen & started yelling at the woman. I hope they are married because if he was dropping f-bombs to a staff member like that they should walk out there & then. In fact the woman said "if I'm doing such a bad job should I just leave?" as he continued swearing and bashing bowls around. She came to take our order, visibly upset but as she didn't say anything neither did we. It carried on as she went back behind the counter. There wasn't a lot of love in the room. It showed in the food. My waffles weren't fresh or toasted just warm & stale. A banana that looked like it had been microwaved (can you microwave banana?) & cut open sat on the side along with a small dish of cream & one of maple syrup. I ate them but they weren't nice. The coffee I couldn't drink though and I love coffee. My partner said his meal was ordinary. The young boy clearing tables tried to whisk the plates away before I was finished. I should have let him. Ordinary food makes a place average. A bad day happens. But a temper tantrum with f- this and f- that needs to be kept away from the paying customers. Hopefully we struck an isolated bad day.

But I had a surf here, which was totally unexpected.  There’s not a surfing site I’ve read where Stanley gets a mention.  But there it was, at Godfreys Beach, rolling in to the base of the ‘nut’, just under a metre of swell, groomed by an offshore breeze.  It wasn’t powerful but it offered a ride, and there were only four other guys out.  You’ve got to like them odds.

The water wasn’t as cold as I expected.  I had the full steamer on but it didn’t feel any colder than Newcastle in winter.  It is the middle of summer here though.

Rocky Cape is a town back towards Devonport.  It has a large tavern on the highway, your usual low slung blonde brick beer barn.  Behind the tavern is a grassed area set aside for camping.  It’s free if you forego having power or a shower but a powered site is ten bucks.  Showers are three bucks each.

We forked over sixteen bucks and did so happily.  We’d been three nights freecamping – cheap and grotty.  We never went into the tavern.  It was the last thing on our minds.  Instead we scrubbed ourselves clean and, smelling like our bodywash of choice, stir-fried chicken and watched James Spader taunt the FBI during a manhunt or two. 

I give the Rocky Cape Camp Ground 2 stars out of 5.  It exists.  It’s okay.  It’s not near anything to look at.

NIGHT  323  -  SHEFFIELD RV AREA.

Apart from opium, and by extension heroin, does anybody know why poppy flowers are cultivated, because Tasmania has vast fields of them?  Could it be for the seeds?  I think orange and poppy seed cake is popular.  Aldi used to sell orange and poppy seed muffins.  I loved them so much I’d be covered in crumbs before I’d left the carpark.  Would acres of poppies be cultivated solely for the seeds?   I’ve seen them sometimes on bread too.  Are poppy seeds that popular?

Whatever the reason, North West Tasmania grows the same poppies as used to make heroin, I’m sure of that.  The ‘Keep Out’ signs are a good indicator, including print that says ‘prohibited area’ and a further warning to the casual passer-by that ‘illegal use of crop may cause DEATH’.  But these signs are tied onto rusty slack lined fences that wouldn’t keep out a kid (child or goat).  I wonder whether these signs create the opposite effect to the one desired.  Instead of warning me away from the crop, I now find it compelling.  If I’m honest, without the signs I’d have no idea what was being grown in those fields and wouldn’t have cared.  I’d have driven straight past.   Now, however, I’m wondering just how it is that poppy flowers are turned into heroin.  Just what do you have to do?  I’m tempted to reach through the tight security provided by three sagging strands of  ten gauge wire and acquire myself a few poppies.  Surely the internet will tell me what to do next.  I could say I was just trying to bake a cake.

 

In the midst of the poppy fields, Sheffield is a scenic town below Cradle Mountain.  It sells itself as a tourist destination by decorating its buildings with murals depicting its history.  There’d be about 30 of them throughout the town, full of farmers and horses working the land.  Some depict the local flora and fauna. The quality varies, depending on your viewpoint I guess.  I saw maybe fifteen and that was enough.  I think it’s a good idea.  It did feel like an outdoor art gallery.   However, a little more variation on the theme wouldn’t go astray.   

The RV park is a flat fenced off area across from a cricket ground.  Cool bevy beside me, I sat in the front seat and watched for an hour.  It was park cricket exactly how I remember it.  Wickets fell quickly, out-fielders couldn’t catch, and anything that hit the pads was generally given as LBW.  It was like watching 20/20 without any big bash. 

 

 I fell asleep in the sun, my head against the window.

I give Sheffield RV Park 1 ½ stars out of 5.  I’m thankful it was there.  It offered a free place to legally park and that’s about it really.  If the cricket field had a scoreboard I’d have known what was happening.  That would have earned another star.

NIGHTS  324 & 325  -  CAMPBELL TOWN RV AREA.

Happy Australia Day.

Our Australia Day started multiculturally, with a 70 year old Northern English herbalist giving us Chinese herbs.

He was parked next door and was having trouble with his phone.  I volunteered Shana as an expert.  Death stare toward me aside, Shana tried her best to fix his i-cloud dilemma.  She couldn’t, but he rewarded us anyway.  “Here, you’ll love these” he called out in lieu of knocking on our door, “I bring them in myself.  From Bejing”.

The smell of what he held in his hand is indescribable.  It’s a concoction of Chines herbs infused into a stick-on patch, like nicobate patches if they’d been rubbed through a series of things that shut your nose down and make your eyes water.  “Wear them for three days and they’ll stop any pain” he assured us.  We thanked him. 

I didn’t need them then but I think I do now.  I keep getting pains behind my nose and my eyes from the funk they create in the ‘bago.   It’s like smearing the inside of your head with dencorub.

As the day unfolded we chanced upon what surely must be the big three of all Australia Day celebrations – raspberries, topiary and craft.

At the Christmas Hills Raspberry Farm we ate chocolate coated raspberries and raspberry ice-cream and raspberry muffins.  It was a good breakfast.  Shanzie toyed with buying a pair of raspberry scented socks but I think she was afraid I’d eat them.  I do like raspberries.

Next stop Rialton, the topiary town.  It’s really only a quick stop type of place.  The main street has topiary sculptures of various complexities.  There’s little hedgy trains and elephants and people.  In the spirit of Australia day we took a picture of a topiary boxing kangaroo.  Oi, Oi, Oi.

 

Then on to Deloraine, a gorgeous little artsy town.

In Deloraine, the appropriate way to celebrate Australia Day is to line the streets with local craftspeople; let them do their crafty thing while we tourists watch.  So I watched yarn being spun on a spinning wheel, a landscape take shape with oil paints, and a woman crocheting using wire and beads.  They were each very clever and I must admit to being drawn to this type of place.  I’m not anti-technology but I’m always more impressed by things made by hand.  I’d have liked to be on the street making something.

I had a pie instead.

Admittedly it was a gourmet pie – venison and red wine – but I demonstrated my hand to eye dexterity by eating it one handed and successfully avoiding drips landing anywhere on my body.  I did, however, refuse sauce.  Shana’s from New Zealand.  She had a sandwich.

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie.

We ended up in Campbell Town, a place chosen mainly because it’s Shana’s brother’s name (Campbell, not Town).  That’s how random our life has become.  It’s another RV park; another flat expanse of land near to a town.  There’s no toilet of any kind but it’s beside a beautiful little river with a historical bridge.   Very colonial.

Our Australia Day ended with us sitting beneath a tree, beside a river, eating BLTs and listening to the last 20 of the Hottest 100.  Shana was cheering for the Grammy nominated Lorde but I was happy that Aussie singer-songwriter bloke won.

Oi Oi Oi.

Even though I’d never heard the song before.

We woke up and decided to stay another day.  We are meeting Shana’s mum in Hobart in two days and we’re not far away.  It’s only two hours drive from here.  Another day and night beside a slow running river with ducks, grass and tranquil shade is as fine a place to wait as anywhere.  We might even shower in the ‘bago before we meet up.  I’m sure she’d appreciate that.  We can wash the Chinese herb funk away.

 

I give the Campbell Town RV area 3 stars out of 5.  Ducks are funny and ducklings are cute but slow running water creates urges – urges that aren’t that conveniently satisfied in a place without a toilet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nights 275 - 287; Adelaide to Melbourne

NIGHTS  275  -  277  LEVIPARK CARAVAN PARK, ADELAIDE.

I’m still very much a suburban boy at heart.  Most of my life has been spent at least an hour away from any building over five stories high.  I still get excited around capital cities.

I’ve never become used to canyon like streets buried in valleys between towers and skyscrapers.  They make me feel like a little kid.  I like looking up and catching glimpses of the sky and clouds overhead, perhaps reflected in panes of glass the size of a wall.  I like seeing old buildings stately and grand against the push of the new - solid, defiant and hushed about history.   I like the hustle and bustle of people busily ignoring each other. 

Yeah, when I’m walking, cities are cool.

 I’m not so keen on them when driving though.

Especially when driving the lump that is the ‘bago.

Our original intention was to hole-up on the outskirts of Adelaide.  According to Wikicamps, the Aquatic Centre carpark was a good place to do a sneaky stop for a night or two.  While not exactly legal, it’s close to the city and the prevailing wisdom is that, once there, people rarely get ‘moved along’.  From the Aquatic Centre, we reckoned, we could get the bikes off and ride into town, check the place out, develop a feel.

But the Aquatic Centre was in the midst of some large event.  It was a Sunday and the carpark was chock-a-block full. 

So aimlessly we kept driving.  We drove into the city and through the city and around the city; we obeyed traffic lights and direction arrows and became trapped in the wrong lane; we cut in front of people and squeezed past parked cars and slowly realised we were way too big to ever find a parking spot. 

Naturally swearing ensued.  At each other, at the traffic lights as they changed colour, at the annoying woman in the GPS who kept telling us what to do no matter how many times we told her to shut up.

With nothing achieved we departed the city, guided by Shana to a caravan park that was close and sometimes ‘pet friendly’.

I was fed up.

I was sick of driving. 

I needed this park to accept us.  I needed them to say Morrissey was okay to stay.

And so I created a new breed of dog.

On the form I had to fill out, beneath where it said ‘breed of dog’, I boldly wrote ‘steagle’.

Now creating the ‘steagle’ wasn’t spur of the moment.  I’d been thinking about it for a while, ever since the last time Morrissey was rejected sight unseen solely because of his breed.  In some circles Staffordshire Terriers are considered a bad risk.   But Moz is not a staffie, or not a pure breed anyway (not that that should matter).  We got him from the pound and were informed that he was part staffie, part beagle.  Morrissey is smaller than a pure breed, slighter, with less muscle tone.  People are always telling us how attractive he looks; telling us how the mixture of the two breeds has worked beautifully, talking as if he’d been bred that way on purpose.  Well, from today, as far as anyone knows, he was.  From today he is a ‘steagle’.

 I had the story all mapped out.  I have a brother who breeds dogs, and Morrissey is one of the first of a breeding program between beagles and staffies.  There aren’t many of them around yet.  It’s still in the trial process really, but the initial signs are good, especially if Morrissey’s good nature is anything to go by.  A ‘steagle’ may look more like a staffie but they have a beagle’s gentle nature, more hound than terrier.   

I had my argument assembled but the bloke took the form from me without even a glance.  It was all just paperwork to him.  He wanted the site fees.  The ‘steagle’ had been introduced to the world and was met with bald indifference.

Shana enjoyed the three days in Adelaide.  We got the Vespa going and she zoomed into town, frequenting art galleries and hip coffee shops.  I, however, developed a toothache and so visited a dentist.  Adelaide to me is a place where a partial root canal is available and should last 12 months or more.  However, these root canals ‘wont settle down’ (dentist speak for your mouth will consistently remain hurting) for two to three days.  I laid around, moaned, read books, while outside Morrissey (the steagle) growled at the mother duck who kept strutting past with her four chicks, just out of reach of his run.

 

 

Levipark was a great option.  It is near to the city with a bus stop out the front.  The Torrens River flows behind it (although it is no bigger than a creek at this stage).  There’s a bike track beside the river that meanders into town.  Everybody is packed in close together though.  You can hear everything that goes down in the van next door, which isn’t as interesting as you might think (depending, I guess, on who’s next door).   Our neighbour was a bossy old woman who remained sulky and bored because her semi-sodden old man spent two drunken days at the cricket.

We give Levipark Caravan Park 4 stars out of 5.  They were relaxed and trusting regarding dogs.  They had all the amenities which were well maintained.

NIGHT  278  -  RAPID BAY CAMPING AREA, RAPID BAY.

From travelling high along remote hills you descend into a small, skinny valley, passing only cleared pastures and the occasional farmhouse.  There is a sharp left hand turn when you reach the valley floor, which, once taken, reveals two distinct clusters of houses.  The smaller cluster, off to the left, has maybe sixteen houses, all built exactly the same.  They are all made from concrete, have a veranda out the front, a concave curved wall between the pillars. Each is double fronted, a large single window like a Cyclops eye on the facing wall.  They are painted different colours but are all variations of nondescript – muted beige or cream or taupe.  Most of them are vacant with no curtains or evidence of recent habitation.  The street has a line of large pine trees running down its centre forming a single lane on either side.  There’s a large locked gate at the end.

You turn right, towards the second cluster of maybe forty or fifty houses squatting around four or five streets.  This could be anywhere – with houses of differing styles; differing shapes and designs.  You turn off just before you reach them, into a large field of cleared grassland.  There’s a toilet block visible, looking tiny against the large and imposing hills behind it.  Apart from this valley, these hills reach directly to the sea.  But here the sea fronts the cleared grass, forming the southern edge of its perimeter.  A sign proclaims ‘Rapid Bay Camping Area – choose a site and the caretaker will find you’.  We drove past several others already camping, straight to the water’s edge.

 

The beach is as much gravel as sand.  It slopes steeply into the ocean.  To the left is an old jetty, jutting out into deeper water before forming a T shape. Beside it is a shorter jetty, almost brand new, straight only.  The older jetty is falling down.  It is fenced off with razor wire.  The new jetty has people fishing from it.  Beside the jetties, set back into the hill, ugly yet compelling behind its own ring of razor wire, is an old mine, its rusted steelwork stretching like dental braces across the hill.  The mine is the reason for the town’s original existence – something to do with cement.  It still owns the first cluster of houses.

We didn’t come here for cement though.  Rapid Bay’s new claim to fame is the Leafy Seadragon.  Apparently it is one of the best places to glimpse the leafy seadragon in its natural environment and, excitingly for us, often only requires snorkelling.  From what we’ve read you swim beside the old jetty and, if luck is with you, there they are, frolicking in the water like something from SpongeBob.

We were here with a goal.

And the weather seemed to be on our side.  It was a hot(ish) day which, given that Shana doesn’t have a wetsuit and I, true gentleman that I am, wont wear mine in sympathy, was exactly what we wanted.  There was wind about, but it didn’t deter us.

In boardshorts and rashies we passed the fisherpeople on the jetty, politely smiling as each of them joked on the probable coldness of the water or the likelihood of us being eaten by sharks.  There was a dive boat in the water, over by the old jetty, with two guys being taught the correct use of scuba equipment.  We took the stairs to the platform at water level.  From here the swell was noticeable as it lurched and fell quite markedly.  Our intent was to swim from the new to the old jetty, and then follow it out into the deeper water.

 The water was bloody cold.  Visibility was poor – maybe only two or three metres.  At the old jetty I’d had enough.  I have to admit I’m not the keenest of snorkelers.  It doesn’t take much to put me off.  I get a bit anxious when in deep water and I’m not tied to something like a bodyboard.  Anyway, the cold, the swell, the poor visibility, and my general discomfort combined.  I was back on the new jetty inside of ten minutes.

Shana persevered.  She followed the old jetty back into the shore while I lugged her gear.  She emerged purple with the cold and disappointed that she saw little.

But at least we tried.

We give Rapid Bay Campground 3 ½ out of 5.  It had brilliant 360 degree views and a cool, relaxed vibe.  It was like spending the night 30 years in the past.

NIGHT  279  - A SMALL CARPARK BESIDE THE RIVER, GOOLWA.

Today was supposed to be exciting, for me at least.  You can have your stupid snorkelling with all its floating about and appreciating nature, today we were supposed to be back in serious surfing territory at the bottom of the Flerieu Peninsula.  We’d prepared to be unprepared - free camping wherever conditions decree we stay.  We didn’t know where and didn’t care.  Surf safaris can be like that.

The wild National Park beaches of Parsons and Waitanga were beautiful but open and exposed to the howling southerly that ruined any surf completely.  We sat on the bluff for a while enjoying the view.  It was not for us though. Onward we went.

Port Elliot bustled with people and was protected in parts, but lake-like.   

Middleton had two guys out, and the wave was almost working against the stiff wind.  Not enough though.  I liked the place.  I could happily spend time there.  But not today.

Goolwa Beach was the last hope and it was hopeless.  It was the most open beach of them all, the wind ripping along the shore, stripping sand from the dunes and throwing it at us.  There would be no surfing.  Not today.  The morning perhaps.  Yes, it will come together in the morning.

Goolwa Beach did have pippis though, and pippis make fantastic bait.  So we ignored the sandfight and walked the beach, wriggling our heels into the wet shore as the waves receded.  We’d soon uncovered a bag full.  They went into the freezer.

It was still only early afternoon so we drove to a van park that sounded promising.  We didn’t even drive in.  It was about 5km out of town and offered nothing but a river that was really just a swamp.  We followed a different river on the way back into town (the mighty Murray) and spotted a small carpark next to a few moored boats.  There was a BBQ nearby and a small shop along the road.  We pulled in and pretended we were day campers, using the amenities provided.  I cleaned the barbie and we played with Moz.  I mucked around on the swings.  The evening brought out the power walkers, who power walked past us with barely a smile.  We, however, nodded and said “hi”, just a couple of innocent day trippers and their doggy.  And then, when the big dark came, we simply forgot to drive away.  It plum slipped our mind.

 

We give this Goolwa carpark 3 stars out of 5.  It had a toilet and a shop and a lovely view of the river, but we’d have appreciated less power walking and more smiley ambling.

NIGHT  280  - WRIGHTS BAY CAMPING GROUND.

The wind continued.  We checked some of the same surf spots as yesterday, with the same result – crap, rubbish, offal.  Pity.  But the Melbourne deadline hung over us, preventing us waiting to see if the wind dropped and the surf picked up.

Places to go.

Shana chose the Wrights Bay Camping Ground based on reviews she’d read.  They were glowing in the main.  Maybe it’s because of another grey sky afternoon, or maybe it’s because we drove for nearly 400km today, but the place seemed dowdy and redneck to us.

It’s a fishing camp I suppose, decidedly male in feel.  There are two tin sheds housing the male and female amenities – old school long drops where you must add a bucket of lime after any number twos.  By the look of the sheds they’ve been here for many years.  The way the stench hit your nose confirmed it.  It was a good way to conserve water because, being housed in the same buildings, showering was kept to a minimum.

The grounds were really just a sectioned off corner of farmland, grassed and closely mown.  It was right on the beach, but the beach was choked with seaweed and jagged rock reefs.  There was a boat launching area displaying a sign that warned of the extreme danger of swimming there.  Strong currents had dragged several people away over the years, three of whom had drowned.

So swimming wasn’t inviting.

Primarily people arrive with boats, to spend happy days fishing off the reefs nearby.  With no boat we kept to ourselves, leaving early in the morning with little fanfare and an itchy accelerator foot.

    

We give Wrights Bay just 1 star out of five.  We don’t really understand the rave reviews we’d read.  The whole place seems pointless without a boat.  We were disappointed really.  The only thing that made us smile was the decorations on the ‘Christmas Tree’.

NIGHT  282  -  BEACHPORT CARAVAN PARK, BEACHPORT.

Robe is a beautiful place, full of history and beauty and seafood.  It was here that Shana thought it time to buy a crayfish.  We were in a crayfish area, it was crayfish season, and she thought we might get one cheaper by ‘buying direct’. 

Turns out we did.  By visiting the local co-op we saved maybe twenty bucks on a small, succulent little crayfish less than an hour out of the ocean. So, at 10 am, we were both already anticipating the evening meal.

 At least that’s something that worked out as we’d planned.

What a moaner I’ve become.  Moan, moan, we didn’t see a leafy sea dragon; moan, moan, the surf was rubbish; moan, moan, we didn’t have a boat to fish the outer reefs.  I can’t really help it though.  There are lots of towns around the Australian coast and it’s the things that seem attractive that set you up for joy or disappointment.  It’s impossible not to have expectations, or at least little excitements that initially render one place more attractive than another.  Sometimes these expectations remain unrealised.  Moaning is simply the articulation of unrealised expectations. 

Justification over.

Sometimes, however, you just wheel into a town you’ve never heard of; a town you know nothing about, and it charms you instantly.  Perhaps it’s a site, a view, a feeling, a mood, but there’s something that makes you look at each other and both go “wow!”  And it’s a powerful “wow” because it appeared without expectation, like a gift from a person you’ve never met before.

Beachport is a great example.

Beachport was just somewhere to stop and have lunch.  It was on the South Australian coast, not far from the Victorian border.  We hoped it had a bakery.  That’s all we wanted from it.  Fresh bread would be lovely.

A stunning turquoise bay peered at us between sand dunes as we drove in, a long jetty becoming visible as the dunes gave way to a caravan park positioned on the foreshore.  The town was 100mtr further along, old stone buildings blending with those more modern - perhaps twenty shops in total, offering all the things a small town needs.  It was a Saturday and a wedding was taking place on the headland beside the jetty, a small rotunda housing a desk with the official documents, decorated with streamers and balloons.  A large marquee had been erected at a restaurant across the road, a blackboard proclaiming that they were closed for the night owing to a private function.  We parked and breathed it all in, standing in the sun and figuring out which besuited guy we thought was the groom.  We stood against the salty breeze and watched three women in apricot fussing and fussing over one in white.

 I don’t know what you call it when tourists are overcome with a desire to check out local real estate, maybe the Germans have a name for it, but, whatever it is, at that moment we embodied it.  We got back in the ‘bago; drove through and around town noting places for sale and the names of real estate companies.  In the process we discovered beaches just out of town, beautiful white sand bays with deep scoops of tranquil ocean.  And the sun kept shining brighter and hotter than it had for weeks.

As befits such serendipity, the caravan park joyfully accepted pets.  We took a spot overlooking the beach.  In the afternoon we walked the shops, watched a father walk his daughter through a marquee flap, went fishing off the jetty, laid in the sun and sat in the sun and read books in the sun.  That night we ate fresh crayfish and locally cooked chips and soft white bread as we compared real estate prices using the net.

I give the Beachport Caravan Park 3 stars out of 5.  While it was all super-idyllic and serendipitous it remains a necessity for a park to have more than one amenities block, especially when positioned down a steep hill off to one side.

 NIGHT  282  -  CAPE BRIDGEWATER COASTAL CAMP.

Cape Bridgewater Coastal Camp is one of the more bizarre places we’ve stayed.  Ahh…but I’m getting ahead of myself.

In the early afternoon we crossed into Victoria with little fanfare.  We expected a fruit and veg checkpoint somewhere but none materialised - our arrival into a new state was whispered in by an inconspicuous metal sign half obscured.  Nothing changed.  The sky remained overcast; the road remained skinny and in poor repair.  We kept driving and soon arrived in Nelson, not far over the border, the town where we’d proposed to stay.

But we didn’t.

Perhaps we have a dislike of small fishing towns because instead of being charmed by Nelson, as we had hoped, we were aghast at the lack of facilities and the force of several old men sitting in deckchairs on the jetty, industrial sized eskies beside them containing beer.  It may be imagination but they seemed to all turn as one and leer toward us – as if we were fresh meat.

Maybe Nelson really is a lovely place but we were free to drive straight back out again and we did.

Happily.

We just didn’t know where to.

Surfing came to our rescue again (or at least the desire to surf).

“There’s a surf beach not too far away” said Shanzie, eyes locked on her phone, “but the road in winds around.  You can stay at a nearby school camp.  Looks okay”.

We could go to Cape Bridgewater or go to Portland, a large town 21km further east.  Scissors, paper, rock again decided, with Shana’s paper covering my rock and her opting for the small hamlet adventure of the Cape.

We drove in past fan blades slowly turning in the wind, dozens of them in a cluster, set against the grey sky like a forest of giant metal dandelion clocks.  We drove down steep, steep hills.  We did hairpins turns to the left.  We did hairpin turns to the right.  And, finally, at sea-level, beneath a large headland to the west, the almost perfectly crescent shaped bay of Cape Bridgewater appeared.  It had money.  The houses were large and conspicuous, the dwelling equivalent of Bentleys and town cars.  There was a café and a surfclub, the clubbies packing up for the day.  A weak wave was throwing itself limply onto the shore.

It was windy and cold and beautiful, remote with benefits, a playground for wealthy people from somewhere else.  We trailed our feet in the shorebreak, walked the beach and watched Morrissey explode across the sand.  The sky darkened and rain hung suspended in a mist – time to set up for the night.

During most weeks Cape Bridgewater Coastal Camp plays host to school kids. It consists mainly of bunkhouses named after sea creatures and spaces designed for ‘outdoorsy’ teaching and learning activities  – an archery course, canoe sheds, paved areas overlooked by bushwalking safety tips. 

 

There’s nobody here at all on weekends and so it operates on an honesty system.  They leave the shower buildings unlocked, male and female.  They leave a well-equipped kitchen unlocked, just slide the glass door across and open the fridge, or use the microwave, or boil the jug.  A sign on the office door tells you to find a spot to park, powered or unpowered, and maybe someone will be along to collect your money.  If not, could you please pay at the café on the way out. 

We were the only ones there.

Two others drove in and then drove straight back out again.   Admittedly nothing there was plush.  It did have a run-down feel about it.  But, unless they were going to do a dodgy free camp, there was nowhere else for these people to go other than Portland.  We didn’t care that they left.  The rain cleared and the sunset shone through the clouds and we showered and cooked and all was good in our world.

I give the Cape Bridgewater Coastal Camp 5 stars out of 5.  The place isn’t perfect but I applaud the owners for providing a cheap place to stay among the wealthy elite, and their doing so in such a trusting manner warms my heart.  Maybe I should add another star.

NIGHT  283  -  PETERBOROUGH CARAVAN PARK

Situated along the Great Ocean Road between The Bay of Islands and The Twelve Apostles, Petersborough Caravan Park was recently voted ‘best van park in Australia’  (Womans Day Readers, 2013). 

It isn’t.

It wouldn’t make our top ten.

We give The Peterborough Caravan Park 3 stars out of 5.  It was okay but it wasn’t very clean, especially the camp kitchen.

NIGHTS  284 & 285  -  JOHANNA BEACH CAMPING GROUND.

I love the way that surfers attempt to preserve and conserve the future.  Johanna is a wild surf beach and has played host to the Bells Surf contest a few times over the years, offering quality waves when Bells didn’t.  The story with the camp ground is that the local surfer/farmer who owned the land bequeathed it to the council on his death – with the proviso that it remain a free camping area that allows dogs.  I’m not sure what happens if these conditions aren’t met, and there was talk around that there is an attempt to ban dogs, but, as it stands, Johanna offers a small pocket of dog friendly camping within the surrounds of National Park.

And quality surf.

Although not while we were there.

I had one session.  It was messy.  The waves shut down quickly.  It was all paddle and little ride.  Pointless to talk about.

I’d rather talk about the journey in.

The Twelve Apostles were beautiful and awe-inspiring.  We’d viewed most of the rocky outcrops that had been given touristy names along this stretch of The Great Ocean Road (Bay of Martyrs, Bay of Islands, The Grotto, London Bridge, etc) and found them a bit lacklustre.  We were wondering if we’d become jaded; if all this seeing of things had made everything feel the same.  Maybe it was to do with the clear morning light, offshore breezes and blue, blue water but The Twelve Apostles had us both ‘ooohh’ing and ‘aaahh’ing again. 

Not long after The Twelve Apostles the Great Ocean Road veers off the coast and follows small, winding roads through dense forest.  This was also sense-thuddingly beautiful in a completely different way.  Although Moz might disagree.

Poor Moz.  At one stage, with me driving, I must have negotiated a bend too quickly for the physics of his kennel.  There was a large crash and what we saw next was Morrissey’s travel kennel toppled over on its side and now jammed down into the stairwell.  He was upside down and had no way out.  I quickly pulled over and we laughed about it later, as you do, but Moz was trembling when we got him out.  He spent the next half hour on Shana’s lap, hunkering in tightly, his head buried between her arm and her side as if he couldn’t even bear to look at his kennel again.

He got over it.

I give Johanna 4 stars out of 5.  Being near to Christmas we found it populated with lots of free-camp lifestylers who had already set up for an extended stay.  They weren’t there for the beach or the surf or even the natural surroundings, it seemed more about having somewhere to stay over the holiday period that was free.  Fair enough.  It just made for a jarring mix.  Some of these older folk like to command a campground, especially when ensconced.

NIGHT  286  -  LORNE CARAVAN PARK

“It’s expensive this town.  We couldn’t live here”.  So said Shana, based solely on the price of an ice cream.  The day was glorious.  The weather hot and still.  The water was very cold but inviting and addictive.  Of course there was no surf to speak of.

Lorne Caravan Park has a strange set-up.  Cut in half by a river, the ‘top area’ adjoins and shares amenities with the playgrounds and parklands of one section of the beach.  To access this section of beach, which is open to all members of the public, requires driving through the caravan park.  It’s no problem during the day.  People drive in, swim, drive out again.  It all functions smoothly.  It’s at night when ‘the rot sets in’.

At night Jucy vans and the like sneak into the beach carpark.  Once again, fair enough.  A sneaky free camp is something we do ourselves.  Our ‘bago isn’t a party bus though, and many Jucy and Wicked vans are.  So at night drunken young folk wander and sing and scream across the park to and at each other.  At some stage everything apparently becomes hilarious and laughter rattles through the trees over and over.  The amenities block becomes a ‘hang out’, the source of much of the shouting.  Glass breaks, boys wrestle on the grass, nude night-time swimming is mentioned over and over but nobody seems to go anywhere.

The caravan park proper is down the hill and over the other side of the river.  Party central is council owned and seldom patrolled.  There’s no-one ‘official’ to tone the mood down.  

In the end they were all noise.  No fights broke out, nobody hurt anyone else.

I lay listening, torn between wrinkled outrage and a memory driven desire to join in.

We give Lorne Caravan Park 1 ½ stars out of five.  It’s in a good spot but I forewent a shower because I didn’t want to negotiate the young person posse who’d commandeered the amenities block.  And, in the morning, after the night before, nowhere around the area was anywhere you wanted to be.

NIGHT  287  -  ANGLESEA BEACHFRONT CARAVAN PARK.

We just snuck in.  At 12 midnight once pet friendly parks undergo their yuletide transformation, no longer accepting of the humble pooch. School Holidays officially begin tomorrow.

 As it was we were sequestered in a windswept ‘safety zone’ away from everyone else.  The ‘dog zone’ had its own pathway to the beach and to town.  We had to promise to never enter the park proper.  We did as requested.  What did we care really?  We’d be in Melbourne in the morning.  There we’d have a lot more freedom to do as we wish.

The day was windy, overcast and grey.  We did a surf check anyway.  I wanted to see Bells Beach, Winkipop, Jan Juc, Torquay.  If the gods were with me, maybe I’d do more than just see them.  Bells has a strong ‘place to surf before you die’ vibe.

I’ll have to go back though because there sure weren’t no wave today.  I walked down the stairs, walked over to the headland.  You could see where it fired up and why.  I took a hundred pointless photos. 

Walking back up the stairs I was passed by a middle aged dude with a board under his arm, wetsuit bonded to his skin.  “Not much going on” he said as he passed me, and then proceeded to paddle out.

This set Shanzie and I to speculating.  He looked like a local.  He knew what he was doing.  So why bother paddling out into nothing?  We came up with two separate theories.

Mine was less inventive.  I imagined he was an old school surf addict, believing in honouring the wave by going out every day, regardless of what was on offer.  This would show the proper respect; demonstrate that it was the place he revered not just the wave.  Yeah, yeah.  Whatever.

Shanzie may have nailed it though.  She reckons he was running late and had missed the start of his shift.  She reckons that the Torquay council pays people to sit out on their surfboards at Bells, to show the tourists whereabouts along this rocky headland the famed break actually rears.  Generally older blokes on mals, she reckons they do three hour shifts, probably 8 – 11am, 11 – 2pm, etc.  It was about 11:15 when we were there.  It made sense to Shana that the 8 – 11 guy had come out and gone home.  Why hang around in the cold? 

We took a photo of the guy, sitting on his board like he was waiting for a train, off by himself in the grey morning.  We wanted him to know he was doing good work.  We wanted to show him that his effort was appreciated.

I give Anglesea Beachfront Caravan Park 2 ½ stars out of five.  The place was massive.  We could see as it as we drove through, taking the most direct route, barely daring to slow down and take in the surroundings.