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.