Today was always planned as a rest day. Taking our time to rise late, walk stunning white sand beaches bathed in warm sunshine and just simply relax.
Reality was the wind came up during the night, the van awning banged for at least half the night, and we rose early due to lack of sleep.
Stepping outside the warn van revealed the Antarctic had jumped on cheap tickets on Jetstar and arrived at Walkers Rock overnight. The wind howled all day, we froze all day. Opting for a day indoors we watched some high quality streamed TV amid a bit of exercise to keep our bodies moving.
Late afternoon following a few wines, G thought it would be a good idea to officially identify a small red fruit hanging off a small bush nearby. I had located the fruit, noting that in general, anything growing wild that was bright red was deemed poisonous until proven otherwise. Google told us with some confidence that the red devil was a native peach also called a Quandong. With the fruit now identified, G boldly stepped up to taste it. By the look on her face she would have to be pretty hungry to try more than a morsel.
Now full of bravado, G decided it was time to head into the sand hills and slide down the biggest of them all like we all did as kids. Without a proper piece of cardboard or similar to sit on G elected to plonk herself upon a plastic tarp.
None of us will ever know the science behind the failed attempt. It may have been body position, weight distribution or just soft sand, but try as she might, G simple sank and went nowhere. She eventually pedalled herself down the hill demonstrating a distinct lack of style.
The afternoon got colder and more miserable. Our attempts to cook outside failed with the wind blowing out the gas burners instantly. Finally we scoffed scrumptious burgers indoors whilst shivering slightly less.
Our attempts to stay at the Streaky Bay Islands van park for one more day failed dismally. The place is so popular that we just had to leave to allow others to flow in. At exactly 9.57 am the lovely lady from the office did her rounds to make certain those who were due to leave by ten were all packed up and leaving. Cutthroat business this caravanning!
Before leaving town we naturally had to visit the nice café just one more time. It again did not disappoint. The bacon and egg jaffles were spot on as was the coffee and service. We will be back one day.
A last minute visit to the fish shop to bag some King George Whiting and we were off.
With just over 100ks to travel we made short work of the trip passing roads to some sights we had seen last time. Port Kenny was still bare and sparse with little to no signs of life evident.
We arrived at Walkers Rock, officially known as Lake Newland Conservation Park, after about 3 ks of good dirt road to be met by a sign saying we needed to book on the SA tourism or something website. We found our campsites then negotiated with the almost absent internet to book on a, let’s just say ‘difficult’ website. It was one of those that would have won efficiency awards for an up and coming future star of SA tourism, but in reality just confused anyone over the age of thirty. We remained confused.
We had noticed about 5 ks prior to the camp ground, a local farm at Colton had freshly baked bread for sale out of an old timber toilet looking structure roadside. It was now necessary to turn around, drive back, select a loaf and return. It was definitely worth the trip with the bread being superb.
After set up we walked the beaches marvelling at their natural beauty and in some small way wondering why we holiday to beaches when we have them on tap at home.
The whiting went down a treat for dinner with both us and the swarms of mozzies giving it top marks. We ate, we sprayed mozzie repellent, and we scurried inside for cover as both the insects and the now bloody cold weather gave us no reason to remain in the elements.
Tomorrow is destined to be overcast, cold and windy. It might be a day of doing not much.
Now in fine form G literally smacked the ‘would be if they could be’s’ at the laundry for a second morning running. Not sure what she had left to wash. Maybe it was just a hierarchical reinforcement, but in the end G had a wide smile whilst others sat in the corner wishing for better things in life. Can’t help but be proud of the fight in G at times. Upon her return to the van she reiterated the pure mayhem that had played out in the Streaky Bay Caravan Park Laundry. No doubt there will be a medal struck for this encounter.
With the early victory coursing through her veins, G and I took advantage of the low tide and puddle jumped over to the two little island just off the van park. We spent the next hour photographing breeding birds nesting on top of the craggy rocks. We took great pains to make sure we didn’t disturb them, primarily as they were nesting, but also to get some good pics.
As we were respectfully retreating, happy that we had not ruined the flighted ones day, we passed an ordinary looking lady, mid-fifties, (unless she had a hard life), walking to whence we had come. She wore a red top, being in all ways unremarkable with no hint of what was to come.
A slight noise, then a major flutter of wings called my attention back to the island. Unbelievable is the only word to describe it. Here was old red top thrashing her arms about like an electric scare crow on meth, trying to get a rise out of the birds, just to get a picture. I’m not that good a shot, yet I reckon on a good day I could have put her down. She honestly deserved it. I prayed to the water gods a freak wave would sneak around the island and do what desperately needed to be done.
A bit later o’clock we drove into town, arrived a tad early to meet Trev and Sue for lunch so found a natty little coffee shop. Oh dear, how to make a muffin. G selected an apple and cinnamon example. It was indeed the best muffin ever. Truly, best ever. So thus far Streaky Bay has the best van park and the best muffins in the country. Not bad for a seaside hamlet with half a dozen residents.
I do wish King George Whiting would take a long swim north to Queensland. As good as the last time we were in South Australia the fish was magnificent at lunch overlooking the bay and town jetty. Drift is pretty much the only restaurant in town, so we celebrated Trev’s birthday there. Great food, great company and seagulls. Yes, the veranda tables come with their own water spray bottle labelled seagull repellent!! The little buggers get to close; you take them out.
A lacklustre afternoon led to some late pics of the sun setting across the receding water preceded by a long chat with our new friends from yesterday. Not a bad way to pull up stumps on another day where work feels a million miles away.
Today we bounded out of bed early to be ahead of the pack in the eternal fight for caravan park washing machines. G impressed with her strategy and cunning. As we approached the laundry she marched with purpose towards the washing line rather than the washing machine. Thinking she had lost her way just a little, I questioned. Apparently in this world of dog eat dog washing dramas, the truly experienced put their dirty sheets on the line first, thereby establishing occupation rights, but importantly stopping anyone else from having access to the line. Once the opposition is banished waiting impatiently, you merrily go about washing clothes with full knowledge you have a line or two available to dry them.
I saw the mean and nasty streak in my wife today. I believe a series called ‘Real housewives of caravanning Australia’ is airing soon with my darling G as the star.
After breakfast and a bit of exercise we grabbed Trev, Sue and Henry the travelling dog taking Panther on a drive around Streaky Bay. Ultimately we spun round the Westall Way Loop and the Cape Bauer Loop. Neither being long or arduous, we encountered a series of stunning beaches, spectacular cliffs and cracking rock pools.
One of the highlights was a visit to the Whistling Rocks and Blowholes. Simply, the cliffs we were standing on were undercut by multiple holes and channels that lead from the sea to the top of the cliffs. On a good day when big waves roll in, water spirts high into the air creating a water sprout. At the same time air being pushed up the channels in the cliff making a whistling sound. Reality is, on any day other than the perfect one, waves come in, a puff of water jumps a few inches into the air and the whistle sounds like a semi-silent beer fart. We arrived on any other day!!
Sometime between the travel loops we had a nice but cold pie at the local bakery. We will return one day soon when the ovens are turned on.
Our afternoon was spent consuming nibbles before a beach walk and chat to another Queensland couple who are now invited for tomorrows nibbles. All of us agreed that we are feeling the cold with the wind ripping through us like a quick dose of COVID. Hopefully tomorrow will be a bit warmer.
With Pildappa Rock done and dusted we hitched up and headed ever west. Actually south then east for a bit then west then south, but generally westish.
As we scooted across the fantastic dirt road towards Minippa we noticed the early morning sun on the extensive wheat and barley crops created a uniquely Australian landscape. It was a simple landscape with just the golden crops reflecting light interrupted only by the odd tree atop a rise. If we have to be on holidays it’s hard to beat this area.
Not long later we turned left into Tcharkuldu Rock. Pronounce it how you will. Promising similar ooohs and aaahs as Pildappa, this one excelled. It was very different to the other, yet was stunning in every sense. Containing hundreds of individual rocks mounted on a giant, we could have spent days wandering around getting lost. The old story of Picnic at Hanging Rock came to mind with G walking around never to be seen again unless Henry the travelling dog found her.
On the downwind side of the rock we encountered a park toilet that out did the one at Pildappa in spades. Cleary constructed by the same building contractor this one was more than adequately filthy, coming complete with its own warning sign. In simple terms it basically said disinfect this thing or risk ugly parasites of unknown origin crawling into places they should never see. Seventeen healthy squirts of hand sanitiser later were headed off feeling just slightly violated.
We paddled our way through towards Poochera without drama until we decided to contact Trevor and Sue via the CB. “Hey Trev, you on air.” Silence. “Sue, you there.” More silence. Figuring our radio was on the blink we stopped to sort out the problem. As it turned out Sue’s radio had a technical problem. The problem was multi-faceted. Firstly Sue had somehow got the radio on scan then channel five rather than channel 40. To make certain we could not talk to her she had managed to grab the radio upside down, so she did not have a talk button to push. We collectively fixed the technical problem, and all was well again.
Turning towards Streaky Bay we noticed blue guide posts every few hundred metres. They had the letters, FP of SV or something else I can’t remember. For the next 60 ks or so we spent our time trying to figure out what the letters meant. We figured it had something to do what bush fire brigade but never did get it sorted with our best guess being Fire Point. We had nothing for SV.
The Streaky Bay Islands Caravan Park is frankly the best in the country. Yes I will stand by that. So big are the parking spots that both Trevor and I thought we had to put the vans close to one side as it was a two van space. Not at all. The entire spot was ours. Van parked beside car with still room for a road train.
In similar style the bathrooms were all individual ensuites spotlessly clean. Gotta love this place.
Our afternoon was spent walking in freezing cold wind around a little island just off the beach. At low tide it is a cracker spot to explore.
I cooked smashing pizza for dinner under very specific instruction from G. I excelled apparently.
With no place to travel to today we rose late. Ate breakfast late and headed for a walk up on the rock late.
Pildappa Rock appears to be a bit of a unicorn. It is fantastically amazing, huge, accessible without a fee or permit and not restricted in any way. You just don’t find that in Australia these days. Accordingly it was a winner before we even set foot upon it.
Prior to setting upon the rock we decided to set foot within the long drop toilet in the camping area. Oh mother of god pray for us. This experience was worse than sipping paint stripper through a straw. I felt myself gag at the smell, not breath for fear of one of a thousand flies slipping into my mouth and do business with a haste I have never had reason to previously.
Prior to putting our mountaineering boots on we noticed at the bottom of the rock was a sign telling us about some geraniums that were planted by a girls in 1938. Must say the ‘I think you are talking BS’ metre suddenly flicked into the red for the avid gardener in all of us reckoned we could barely make a geranium last six months let alone 80 or 90 years. A pretty odd place to plant flowers also came to mid. Still in the absence of a better flimsy story we chose to congratulate the girls and walk on.
Climbing the northern face of the rock did not extend our non-existent climbing skills. It was grippy granite on not much of an angle. Once atop we explored for an hour or so noting that the entire area was covered with small round dry pools that clearly held water aplenty when it rained. We also noticed that at a few spots the natural waterfalls had been dammed to hold water on the top. Henry the travelling dog had the time of his life sniffing, running, and climbing. His life was about perfect.
As we circumnavigated Pildappa we walked inside a small rock wall that had been erected about its circumference. It was clear that many years ago local farmers had figured out that the top of the rock not only held huge amounts of water they could harvest , but also that catching the falling water and re-directing it via the wall to a nearby dam provided a valuable resource that otherwise would have evaporated. We collectively decided this was a bit of genius.
Most of the day was spent effectively doing nothing. We chatted, did a bit of maintenance on the vans and prepared for the afternoon assault on the rock for sunset pics.
Late afternoon the sky darkened quickly threatening to dump gallons of water on us. Ultimately, it just stayed dark, didn’t rain yet provided some amazing shots. Again it was cold. Bloody cold. The wind cut through us sending us to bed early.
The first order of business was to trickle down the road to Auburn for another delicious ham, cheese and tomato toasty washed down by excellent tea and coffee. Arriving early we spent about 14 minutes walking the streets waiting for the shop to open.
In that time I found the elusive House of the Rising Sun despite having spent my life believing it was a well known den of iniquity in New Orleans. But there it was in all its glory. Funnily enough it was located directly across the road from the Auburn CWA rooms!
We mounted up and headed north then north westish cutting through small town after small town. Yacka was the one that drew our interest most. Old buildings with faded business signs directing our thoughts to times gone when hard physical work was the currency most valued. Some pics, a wee and we were off.
In good time we motored through Crystal Brook, past Port Pirie and Port Germein before coming across probably the worst environmental vandalism we have seen anywhere. Like a barrier to common sense about 50 wind turbines formed a line directly across the landscape in front of us. The entire outlook had been destroyed by uneconomical rubbish with a half-life of just under a few thousand years. Bring on a clean coal fired power plant any day!
We passed though Port Augusta being the best thing anyone can do in that place. Last time we were here it appeared dirty, dusty and unkempt. Today it lived up to its reputation with groups aimlessly walking the streets, providing a feel of ‘unsafe’ for the visitor to soak up.
Now on the main drag west across the top of the Eyre Peninsula we noted that wheat and barley were still the crop of choice. G decided to educate both of us on the differences between the two. Apparently barely is the hairier one of the two with wheat having a longer seed poddy thing. The other yellow stuff was Alfalfa that was mixed into hay. From that point on she was able to voice with confidence, at a distance, what the next crop was.
As we crawled along the highway we began to hear some crackle on the CB radio. We made out the words “got a 6 metre coming your way, can you go to the edge of the black thanks mate?” Over the next 15 or so minutes the crackle got less crackly appearing to us that a wide load was coming our way.
A look in the mirror revealed a scene not previously encounter in all our years travelling. A pilot vehicle was coming up behind us obviously travelling much faster than us. He overtook us and the CB crackle continued. Another look and the mirrors were filled with a Freightliner towing a 6 metre wide grain tank. We called and asked if they wanted us to get out of the way. The response was no, we will let you know. And they did. The next straight devoid of traffic the call went out and the truck lit up the tarmac like a V8 supercar. He was out and around and disappearing into the horizon within seconds. The lawman in me said ‘dickhead’, yet I could not help but be impressed at being overtaken by a wide load with such commitment to on time delivery.
We fuelled at somethingorother where the burgers were nice before stopping at Minnipa to wait for Trevor and Sue coming behind us. At this location we encountered the Concrete Crapper, being a concrete water tank re-purposed to obviously dispose of concrete craps. It was at least colourful and was the pride and joy of the local Apex Club. Their sign said so.
The 15ks out to Pildappa Rock was on the best dirt road ever. Rock hard, flowing and without potholes, we marched along vey nicely. Arriving at the rock we chewed a few flies whilst selecting the best camp. We set up before beginning the afternoon wine and chat session.
It is quite amazing the topics covered in the middle of the bush without the pressures of normal life imposing. Whether Goondiwindi should be pronounced Gooooondeewindee or Gundawindy was top of the charts leading to whether Gunsynd ‘the Goondiwindi grey ‘was in fact grey or just a normal shitty horse colour.
Cold set in like never before with mercury dropping into massive shrinkage territory. We elected for the comfort of bed at a reasonable hour, if that is possible with day light saving, where lunch time seems to come well before breakfast
Feeling as though we were now full-fledged locals of the Clare Valley, we started the morning with a visit to yet another cool little breakfast spot. We did so on foot with the round trip giving us a 6k kick start. This one was the Watervale General Store. And a general store it was. Containing a smashing little café with delicious, delicate cakes, it also stocked the basic essentials and was the Post Office. We fell in love instantly.
The breakfast was top notch with only the ‘I don’t want to talk to you’ attitude of the lady behind the counter detracting. A gentle walk later we had photographed some beautiful old buildings, an ANZAC memorial and had a yarn to a lady who had taken thus far, five years to renovate her house.
Our time in town today was spent with G getting her hair coloured and buying a last addition to the summer wardrobe. This one was not in the bargain range but was very nice revealing at least the same value as the previously acquired tea towel dress.
Some of the Clare locals are avid readers
A visit to a community gallery had us interested in a striking painting by a local artist. Depicting bottle brush flowers it would be the perfect addition to our new house. It would also tick the box of that special thing we buy each holiday to remember it by.
We walked away in order to think about it. During G’s time at the hairdresser I visited another gallery with some reputation. Having lived in and visited numerous Aboriginal communities I have half and idea of what is good art and what is genuine art. This gallery provided neither. I didn’t look but printed in China stickers could have rightly taken their place on the back of most offerings.
A quick visit to the first gallery saw me walking down the street with the bubble wrapped first seen painting.
Some of the Clare locals don’t read enough
The rest of the day was spent doing very little save G visiting a local winery to taste some fruit juice. She reported it was indeed nice to an extent she bought a couple of bottles to take home.
Tomorrow we head off further north, then west towards the Ayre Peninsular. The weather is expected to be better and warmer, so we are keen to get underway.
This morning was unreasonably cold. The Clare we know from our last winter visit knocked on the door and said, ‘Welcome back Queenslander’. We froze until G found her new jacket purchased in Hay, whereupon the world was a better place once again.
After steaming hot showers and a few aimless laps of the van we took ourselves to a recommended coffee spot a few ks south. Velvet and Willow is a damned good coffee shop. The tea was made perfectly, the coffee good enough and the ham, cheese and tomato toasty up there with the best. Boasting tasteful background music from our era and a sunken eating area surrounded by century old sandstone, this place shone. Our day had started well.
Into Clare township we headed. A visit to the only auto parts store in town revealed they had just the weird part I needed to do an electrical job on the car in the afternoon. Funnily enough exactly the same thing happened on our last visit. Unfortunately the hardware shop nearby was not up to the same standard, being unable to provide a tube of Silastic.
We walked the main street for a while. G booked a hair appointment for tomorrow and I got a haircut. I’m always nervous when it comes to paying for a haircut. I never know whether I will get a fair price or whether it will have a metrosexual tax added and cost a bomb. At $25 this one was a steal. Almost worth the drive back every month or so for such a bargain. According to the hair assessor it looks OK, but not necessarily great.
Sevenhill winery is apparently the oldest in the area. It is somehow slotted into a church yard perched on top of a hill just out of Clare. Not sure whether the winery owned the church, or the church owned the winery. Probably the latter as the Jesuits brought the original vines to the area on a slow boat from wherever Jesuits come from. Either way it would be a bugger to keep a grape vine alive for months on end at sea.
We saw the sign saying ‘Sevenhill’ yet missed the one beside it saying ‘entrance 300 metres’. Our entrance thus became an unplanned visit to a graveyard, a trip down a 4×4 track amongst grape vines, a short excursion down a cycle only path, a drop down a bank back onto the 4×4 track and a drive into the back of the winery rather than the front. We figured we did not need the winery tour on offer at the cellar door. We got lost leaving as well!!
The cracker of the day however came when we visited a crypt positioned under the church. Here twenty or so priests are interned. It was as it was. No touristy polish, just a small dark place with plaques marking sealed coffin size holes in the wall. We noticed at the far end there was two empty holes. We chose to exit quickly just in case those we decide fate saw an opportunity to fill the holes with us to finish the job and move on to a new project.
For lunch we took advice and drove the short distance to Mister Micks winery. Not realising we had been here before, the vine covered walls of the old brick building gave it away on our approach. We had Tapas apparently. In my words we had lovely bread, Haloumi (G had that. I’d rather eat leather soaked in petrol), meat balls and Arancini balls. To say the food was amazing is an understatement. It was that good; served with style and cost about a third of what we are used to paying at home. It might be worth the drive back to get lunch and a haircut.
Delicious lunch. No left overs
Our late afternoon was spent on household chores. Washing, fixing little things on the van and making an Anderson plug outlet for the car so we can charge the second battery from solar panels.
Some dinner and chocolate later and we were ready for bed.
Waking amongst the general rumble of a caravan park, we packed the van and trundled off into town for a walk along the mighty Murray River. The plan was to then partake of a scrumptious breakfast sitting somewhere above the Murray just taking in the ambiance.
The walk went particularly well ,being more of a stroll with no destination. We happened upon a garden put together in honour of a famous local council bloke or something like that. It was apparently a scented garden. Try as I might I could not smell a thing.
Can’t smell a thing
Returning to the Rowing Club for breakfast on the deck, we sat, chatted then looked at the menu. Thank god the Ambos got there in a hurry, for both of us needed resuscitating. $41 for a couple of sausages, a bit of bacon and a couple of eggs overlooking a muddy creek. And I thought Noosa was unrealistically expensive. We left hungry.
G smiling before seeing the menu
Up town we located a genuinely good café. Great breaky at a decent price and lovely staff to deal with. What’s not to like. Well, a lot actually. Mildura has dress shops. G likes dress shops. Our departure was delayed significantly. G purchased a few pieces that would assist in her summer wardrobe; apparently. I was not to upset as one of the dresses has a lovely checked print so can be re-used as a tea towel when it gets old. Value was definitely there.
Not long after we entered South Australia from Victoria we encountered quarantine bins on the side of the road. Basically you get to ditch your fruit and veges into a long drop fruit toilet before heading to the offical inspection station up the road.
The inspection officer was a really decent lady. She had a look inside the van, commented that it looked brand new and left us to our day. The encounter even included getting to travel under a Dunlop Tyre bridge just like they used to have at the old Surfers Paradise Raceway when I was a kid.
Heading out towards Renmark, we encountered little until we arrived. A cracker narrow bridge across the Murray accompanied by a lovely park made our brief stay worthwhile.
A list of less than memorable towns flew by unit we pulled up in Morgan for a pic of a church and a getting desperate wee. Upon returning to the van I noticed the weather strip running the full length of the van on the left side was dragging on the ground. A quick inspection revealed something (probably a rock) had flicked up from the van tyre and knocked the head off a screw that held the bottom of the strip to the van frame. Without the head the strip was free to pull out of its runner and fly free.
Nine well selected swear words later, I had the weather strip remounted, and my order for another role of hundred mile and hour tape submitted. I decided tomorrow was the appropriate day to fix it properly.
The next town to take our attention was Eudunda. A village pretty much in the middle of nowhere, with not a green stick of grass to show, for some reason had the cheapest fuel we had seen for a thousand ks, and a couple of amazing silos to match. Thankfully the fuel was cheap as we had been battling 50km/h headwinds all day making the fuel gauge drop dramatically. Panther was sucking over 20 litres of diesel per 100 kilometres. I thought this was bad until a Mitsubishi owner told me a bit later his used that much on a good day. I love how another’s misery makes me feel so good.
It’s incredible how quickly the landscape can change as we travel. Literally one hill after Eudunda the entire world was covered with knee high barley crops creating a truly beautiful spectre. Ancient cottages perched on hills completed the moving picture perfectly.
Our day ended as we skipped through a number of little towns close together before finally coming to rest about six kilometres south of Clare.
I’m told the next couple of days are visiting wineries. No doubt I will be driving and G drinking. I wet my pants in anticipation!!
