After a night of being blown from one side of the Eyre Peninsular to the other, we rose to a bleak morning that was bitterly cold. It’s hard not to like Wyalla, yet it seemed it was doing everything it could to make us hate it with a passion.
We headed out, got fuel in a servo that tested all of Peter’s caravan driving skills and settled in a park opposite a big shopping centre. Peter sat intently participating in a university lecture on human behaviour and the drivers that cause us beings to do what we do. As Peter desperately thought of nice ways to tell the on-line audience that some people are just born dickheads and we did not need a degree to understand that, G went shopping.
After an hour and a half, G returned as the human behaviour lecture wound to a mind-numbing halt. We saddled up, kicked Puma over and headed south along the coast to Port Lincoln.
On the way we encountered lots of lovely little villages by the sea. Cowell caught our eye as its entrance was dominated by some cracking silo art depicting a local bloke, his camel and parrot. Long story apparently; no doubt with many versions.
On we toddled, dropping into Forgottenitsname Bay for a look left and right before heading further south. After about three hours Port Lincoln came into sight. There is clearly money in this town. Striking motels, hotels, apartments, and seaside mansions were common. We located the van park, set up with uninterrupted views of the bay and dropped by the Landrover guru as Puma had developed a niggling noise.
The late afternoon found us locating good friends Sue and Trevor, set up across the from the bay from us. The girls drank wine, the boys listened to the girls talk and drink wine. Henry the dog sat lapping up pats and scratches.
From a holiday of 2021 perspective today was a bit uneventful. We like days like today.