Not every day you wake up to howling wind, spitting icicles and temperatures reflecting a permafrost. In Broken hill apparently you do. We packed up as quick as we could, noting that our neighbours had a grey water hose that was frozen causing no end of problems to the owners trying to curl it up into a bag.
Hitting the road about eight we traversed a town just starting to wake up. Kids walking to school had their heads draped in hoodies, hands in pockets demonstrating a gait that had little to do with enthusiasm and not a hint of a smile. How could we blame them? Learning in these conditions would be hell.
A quick call to Peter’s mum had us reassured that her trip to hospital last night was just precautionary and part of life for a 92-year-old. We did however contemplate the most direct route from Broken Hill to Roma, just in case.
We soon entered South Australia, took the obligatory photo at the border, and continued on. At the fruit fly inspection check point near the town of Oodla Wirra, G had to let go of her favourite tomatoes and a cucumber. Stricken with fruit loss grief we battled on. Coffee and a scrumptious toasted bacon and egg sandwich in Peterborough brought happy thoughts back to our world. It was not without its funny moments, however. We reckon the well-meaning lady in the café called us lovelies, pet, love, and darlings at least 367 times within half an hour. The first 200 were endearing; the rest………thank God Peter did not have his Glock handy!
Port Augusta came and went with only one half-hearted ooh and maybe an aah as we crossed the bridge. The KFC did bring back memories from about 2001, being the last time we saw it and ate our fill within. This time it remained the one G and Pete rejected.
The road to Wyalla was a battle with the wind and rain. Puma suffered as she did her best to drag Gstring through the inclement weather. An overtaking B-double was a Godsend enabling us to tuck in behind and take advantage of the wind break he provided.
Soon enough we arrived in Wyalla. Setting up in the van park by the sea was like trying to eat scrambled eggs in a wind tunnel. Stuff was flying everywhere, and our composure was less than elegant. G assured Peter it was nice and warm inside the van!
In an act of stupidity, we decided it was high time we went for a walk. The highlight was we didn’t get wet. The wind smashed us as we walked along the Wyalla foreshore towards the beautiful jetty. We both took note of a more than reasonable number of cars that arrived, parked for a short time next to another car, then drove off. Maybe it was the Wyalla way of greeting your neighbour because it’s too cold to get out of the car, but the sceptic in this duo thought maybe there was an exchange of goods going on. Probably the Wyalla barter system at work.
The jetty is a cracker. Not unreasonably long, it is dissected by a round lit section that sings in the wind. Today it sang a beautiful song as darkness descended upon us. We took some images, decided the icicles attached to our noses needed attention and head back to the van. On the way Peter noticed the occupants of two of the parked cars previously seen, were now in the back seat of one car. The Wyalla barter system at work no doubt! Dinner was an amazing soup concocted by G in short time.
With warm tummies we sat listening to the wind outside and finally realised bed was an attractive option.