Double Happy

Sweeping through Ceduna I was elated to find the Oyster Bar, a portable building on the side of the road with seating on the roof and freshly shucked oysters on demand. It was only 10am, but I was up for a round of au naturel. The bitter zephyr that threatened to blow me from my chair on top of the portable as I enjoyed the estuarine vista only added to the fresh goodness. My talent for excess and the view “If something is good, more is better” was again proven to be faulty, when I went the Kilpatrick.

I had dashed through the Gawler Ranges , north west of Port Augusta, with C in January and thought a mission into the remote Mt Ive homestead would be worthwhile. Three hours later I had walked all the walks, brewed a coffee at the Pinnacles, and considered eating lunch from the film crew table at the homestead, and ask for a job holding the reflector. I elected to return to sealed roads for a night at Minnipa, and more lively conversation with retired gentlemen or GG’s, (so a van – road jive for a caravan – alerted me with a sign written ‘Grey Gonads’ on the back).

Resplendent with orange groves weighed down by fruit, and an organic market brimming with character Mildura was crying out for a digital memory. I paused alongside a gorgeous citrus grove. Emerging from the rows, the owner stopped his tractor to pluck warm fresh mandarines and oranges from the trees, escort me to his Korean pickers, and discuss the relative benefits of a roof mounted tent versus a camper trailer. Such warm hospitality found its full stop when his wife appeared to check “on the blonde he was talking to”.

Concerned about border patrol seizing my contraband, I became a whizz at one handed mandarin de-housing and like a two-pack-a-dayer, as soon as one was finished, lit up my mouth with another.

Double rainbows drew me eastward and past halfway.

Null-a-bore

The Nullabor is long, flat, straight-ish, and short on verdant growth, but I have never found it boring. Punctuated every 200-odd km by roadhouses offering everything from fresh egg sandwiches and home-made baked goods, to what appears to be thrice-fried dim-sum, and a rotating population of itinerant and international staff (one sporting a bonzer hickey), I drop into each one just to see what treasure lies within. And perhaps to stop my mind wandering to such gripping topics as “why does every t-shirt I own have a hole in it just above the hemline and to the right of centre?”. At Balladonia, I grabbed a talking book, and the lovely man presented me with a souvenir pair of undies for my travel wine glass. Forging on, rainbow upon rainbow appeared through Simpsons clouds and I looked for the unicorn that would gallop alongside my vehicle at any moment.

Stopping for the night, I dutifully produced photo ID in the event I would ‘trash my room’, and repaired to my lodgings for the evening. As the sun set through the silicone holding my window together, I swear I heard my little wine glass whisper thanks for the modesty garment.

Alone time

When W found the camper trailer of his dreams, I had not a whit of surprise when he casually mentioned that it was in Brisbane. Without looking at a map, I concluded that this was possibly the furthermost point of Australia from Perth, and that I would be the one popping down the road to pick it up. W would drop in at Brisbane and we would drive in the direction of the Top End and the actual road trip we had planned. Some alone time I thought! How rare and precious. 5522 kilometres later I can report that the novelty wore off about 8 hours into the drive, but am awakened to the magnetism I possess when it comes to men in the sunset of their sixties.

Denied a rear view by everything one imagines one needs for camping and five weeks on the road, there was room left for one small Chihuahua (no turning circle), as I left Perth and headed East.

TomTom assured me it was around 750km to Fraser Station, so I sat back, educational podcasts running, and settled in for a 4:30pm arrival.

As the appointed km mark, dusk descended, TomTom threw his virtual arms in the air and claimed that was all he had. According to him, we were there. Still driving a tense 130km later, I spotted a small sign in the darkness. Glad to avoid a roadside sleepover or the desolate town of Norseman (where a certain petrol station has magic pumps that charge you for more fuel than your petrol tank actually holds) I got to enjoy the fantastic facilities at Fraser Range, and met the first of what would be a clutch of newly retired (and I suspect newly single) men on epic solo cycling journeys from one side of country to the other.