I have that it would be great if everyone could make a trip to Uluru once in their lifetime because it really can’t be appreciated just from pictures. For me, visiting Uluru was probably the closest I have ever come to having a spiritual experience, and I felt that for the first time I understood the connection the aboriginal people have to the land.
I am going to add another experience to that list. I feel that everyone should, at least once, camp by the banks of the Murray River, preferably without too many other people around. They should sit back and appreciate this river, not because it is a mile wide, like America’s Mississippi, but more because it isn’t. As you sit by the banks of this river, river gums clutching to its banks, pelicans gliding silently on its surface, with the usual cacophony of corellas in the background, you need to appreciate that this riverand its tributaries is very much the lifeblood of this country as it meanders through the driest state on the driest country on Earth. I certainly found myself appreciating what this river gives to agriculture and livelihoods in this country, and why managing it is so very important for our environment, our economy and our heritage.
Wow. I did get all philosophical there for a minute, didn’t i?
Day 12 of our adventure and we have finally made it into South Australia. The excitement of crossing through the fruit quarantine station was almost as exciting as realising that our fridge has a special latch to help keep it from flying open on bumpy roads. We simply had never noticed it before, but the quarantine guy, who spends all day opening caravan fridges searching for contraband melons, simply closed the door and engaged the special latch, just as a matter of course. Thanks Quarantine guy!
After a brief stop in Renmark for a very average coffee, dry jam doughnut and equally dry sausage roll, we headed about 35 kilometres out of town to Overland Crossing, our free camp by the Murray. If I had known more about this spot, we probably would have stayed longer, although the threat of rain was making Mark a little nervous about being able to get out through the mud (there are worse problems in life!).
Apart from the river, the main reason anyone would come to Overland Crossing is for the hotel. Established in 1859, it is one of the oldest buildings in South Australia. It has a fabulous beer garden, a quirky museum-like interior and the biggest beef schnitzels I have ever set eyes upon. We should have known something when the lady at the table next to us came prepared with her own Tupperware containers. “We’re local,” she said. For the rest of us fly-by-nighters, the meal came with a couple of sheets of Alfoil for you to wrap your leftovers in. (Note: our beef schnitzels fed us that night and two days’ worth of lunch to follow). There is also space for camping right behind the pub, but with the river only 700 metres away, why would you? You can also have a camp fire by the river, but with this stupid daylight savings nonsense it’s not really worth it. By the time the sun goes down and you can appreciate the fire, it’s time to go to bed. Well, at least that’s the case if you are only staying one night in November.
Fire or no fire, I can thoroughly recommend this little detour from the highway.
Our first stop out of Dubbo was a petrol station to top up on petrol, having learned very quickly that the best process for diesel are definitely not to be found with the big companies, and are more than likely the ones out of town. To that, Petrol Spy has been an absolute god-send because the difference can sometimes be as much as 20 cents per litre. An added bonus is that our servo of choice stocked Rocko’s thongs and I was able to replace my black ones that were starting to get thread-bare with a shiny new pair of pink ones – just like the original ones I got from my afore-mentioned favourite store, Mr Cheap Lightning Ridge all those years ago. It was also here that Mark decided to get us coffee and ordered me a chai latte and brought it back proudly since he had remembered (one of) the coffee I like.
“A big Polynesian guy with a flower in his hair made it,” Mark told me, like that somehow made it even more special.
One sip and I realised that chai lattes are probably not big in Polynesian culture, and he just added what ever that was at hand that started with C – possibly curry powder. What ever it was, it was rank, and then I had to nurse the thing all the way to West Wyalong because I was afraid if I poured it out the window, it might strip the paint off the Pajero.
In this family, one can not simple drive past Parkes without dropping in to see the radio-telescope. We have been before, of course, and Mark through his nerd network has even managed to present PD there and step inside the dish itself, but otherwise we don’t seem to have much luck. Last time we were there, the coffee shop was open, but the visitor’s centre was closed because it had been broken into overnight. This time, the visitor’s centre was open, but the coffee shop was not (can’t get anyone to run it), and of course I was keen for one after tasting the monstrous concoction that I had left in the car because I couldn’t see an obvious bin.
We arrived in Narrandera mid-afternoon and set up in our first free camp of the trip, the Brewery Flat campground on the banks of the Murrumbidgee and just a stone’s throw from town.
We had not been set up for half an hour when there was a knock on the caravan door from a guy called Dean who said he wanted to welcome us to Narrandera, and handed us a photocopied page of his top seven “hand-picked” highlights of the town. At first, I thought it was such a fantastic idea for the shire to send out a welcoming committee. But then he gave us a $1 million note which he hastened to add was not real (you’re joking!) and a pamphlet of the conservative Christian rhetoric he was peddling and asked us if we had been thinking about God lately. We both chorused, “No!” which wasn’t entirely true, because at that very moment I was thinking “Jesus fucking Christ.” After he left, I did read his pamphlet, the gist of which seemed to be that vanity leads to a fall and all these “modern gods” who thought they had everything eventually come a cropper. Like Christopher Reeves thought he was Superman but fell of his horse, and Princess Diana had it all, but then was killed in a car crash, and then it went on to list a pile more of these “modern gods” – like Elvis Presley and Bob Hope. Bob Hope? What did he do to deserve the vitriol? He lived to a hundred, was married to the same woman for 70 years and he performed for the troops 19 times in USO concerts. Plus he died 20 years ago so I’m not sure how often the ‘modern’ part of ‘modern gods’ fits that! I think their propaganda might need an update. Otherwise, they are really limiting their demographic to people who are now in their sixties (at least) and old enough to have been exposed to Bob Hope movies in the Sunday afternoon movie matinees on Channel 9 – before sport was invented. Anyway, we would almost have given the campground 5 out of 5, except for him…and the men’s toilet that was clogged up with toilet paper.
Next to the campground are the ruins for whom the campgrounds are named, and which these days operate as one of the most impressive aviaries you are likely to see, as the corellas, cockatoos, magpies and pigeons have claimed it as their own. You can’t go inside the ruins as there is a private house at the bottom and it is fenced off, but it is heritage listed – not that the birds seem take any reverence.
Strangely, the brewery wasn’t even on Buggalugs’ photocopied list of Narrandera highlights which did include an Op Shop and a pedestrian footbridge. I guess this shouldn’t be too surprising, because this is the sort of town where signs proclaim streets to be the winners of prettiest street competitions – in 1992. Not even Lake Talbot made it onto the list, and I think that is pretty impressive landmark – a man-made lake that is bordered by the Narrandera Aquatic complex which I imagine is a hive of activity in summer. There is also a sky-bridge offering a great view of the lake. It was a bit overcast and cold when we were there though.
I had actually been curious to see Lake Talbot because of my enjoyment of the novels of Chris Hammer. I first read Scrublands which was set in the western Riverina district, and have since been working my way through his Nell Buchanan/Ivan Lucic series. Each of these books has been set in fictional towns which have been inspired by real towns. In The Seven, a body is discovered in a waterway which is clearly Lake Talbot, whereas most of the action takes place in a town that is inspired by nearby Leeton, home of Sunrice, palm-lined streets and an abundance of art deco architecture. Leeton is about a 20 minute drive from Narrandera, off the highway, but much bigger. It even has a Best and Less and a Maccas! It was easy to recognise some of the buildings that were referenced in the novel, but the stars of Leeton are the very real Roxy Theatre, the Walter Burleigh-Griffin designed water towers, and the Hydro Hotel.
The Roxy is a grand old art deco dame, originally opened in 1930 with the capacity to seat 1000 film goers. Today she stands in all her glory on one corner of the roundabout in the centre of town, opposite the memorial clock and looking down the street to the water towers. But it is at night that the Roxy really shines, Tarting herself up in neon. The water towers are also illuminated. For ANZAC day they show the faces of the fallen, but we were there in the middle of November, so the illumination was for the 75th anniversary of Sunrice. Perhaps not as poignant, but still a little pretty. Even the Hydro Hotel lights up, making visible the stained glass that is hard to see in the daylight. Having been told about these nightly light shows by the lady in the tourist info place earlier in the day, we went back to Leeton that night – early, to make sure we could secure our spot to take photos.
We were the only ones there, which honestly seemed a little sad.
Just outside Leeton is the village of Yanco. It has an impressive looking derelict power station, which is open to the public…on Sunday a moth or something crazy. There was an unlocked gate and we thought we might be able to snap a photo, but on the creaking of the metal, a woman appeared from the residence at the foot of the power station. What is it in NSW with residences in ruins…like literally, in them. However, she did let Mark send the drone up for a quick pic.
Anyway, we could easily have spent aanother day or two exploring Leeton, and even venturing out further to Griffith, notorious for the murder of businessman and anti-drug campaigner Don McKay in the 1970s, and another of Chris Hammer’s locales, but that will have to wait for another trip.
After 5 months or so of our new caravan sitting on the driveway, save for three little trips where we went mostly just to check that everything works properly, we set off on our big adventure – six (-ish) weeks on the road. A couple of weeks to get to Adelaide, a week in the City of Churches Supercars, and a couple of weeks meandering back through Victoria and coastal New South Wales, to get back home in time for Christmas. We have done a heap of trips over the years, in tents and two variations of pop-top vans, but this marks our first time in a real-life grown-up (self-contained van) and more importantly, without the safety blanket provided by travelling in a group. Will we survive without breaking down? Will we survive without killing one another? All will be revealed through these pages…
The best things about being (semi) retired, is that we are no longer dependent on school holidays. This means that we can take out time, rather than our usual four days of seven hours driving each day, four days in the actual place we were visiting, and then four days rushing back in time for school, and usually two days of marking beforehand.
So, this trip we have planned around short journeys, with most stops of at least two nights, so that we can take the time to smell the roses – or jacarandas as the case may be.
Day 1 was a very short jaunt to Toowoomba, with the main purpose being to catch up with one of Mark’s mates from the Uluru Astronomy Hub days (sorry Wendy – but we will catch you guys at the muster in May).
Toowoomba is a place I have been to a heap of times before. I remember, shortly after I returned from Mt Isa, Dad thought I was an idiot for going ‘all that way” to Toowoomba for a twenty-first birthday party, but when you are used to driving from Mount Isa to the Sunshine Coast, two- and a-bit hours to Toowoomba is nothing!
Anyway, as I said, I have been there plenty of times before, but clearly never by the Esk-Hampton Road, because I’m sure that if I had, I would have recognised the locale of Perseverance. The very name sounds like it should be the setting for a Taylor Sheridan western, complete with gun slingers and public lynchings and saucy barmaids. But no. All that comprises Perseverance is a public hall, and a massive culvert (under construction. Google describes the Perseverance Hall as “nestled in the heart of Ravensbourne” with a population of 72. If this is the heart, I’m not entirely sure where the rest of the body is (The population of Ravensbourne is only 307. Don’t get me wrong – I think this is great! I love that only a little bit out of Brisbane there are tiny little communities like this and just know that I hope they don’t get developed. The Perseverance Hall is hosting a trivia night in November, and now I wish I knew this when we were planning our trip, because I imagine that would be a real hoot, with volunteers manning the bar and charging genuine 1973 prices!
Anyhow, all of the times I have been to Toowoomba, I don’t think I have ever been when the jacarandas are in bloom, and as we drove in I was instantly reminded of Bruce Dawe’s poem “Provincial City” – ‘the jacarandas hang their sheets of blue water in mid-air…’ This in turn reminded me of my confusion many years ago as a young teacher in Mount Isa. The poem was used as an unseen text in an English exam and the kids were asked to explain the metaphor in that line. More than half of my class started rabbiting on about atlases, with one elaborately explaining how a truck laden with atlases had crashed and the port had captured the moment where the truck disintegrated and the atlases flew through the air before crashing to the ground, This was one of the first times I was forced to consider ‘point of reference’. Mount Isa High was full of young teachers setting English exams for whom jacarandas were a common sight, while most of our charges had never left Mount Isa, and their only point of reference was the class sets of atlases they used in class – which coincidently had a blue cover!
We checked into the Big 4 Caravan Park in Harristown for the night. Our intention had been to stay at the showgrounds, but half-way to Toowoomba, Mark realised he had forgotten to fill the water tanks in the van, and not knowing what the water situation was at the showgrounds, chose the safe option. Amazingly, even though there were three groups of people watching, Mark managed to back the van in perfectly first time. “You can tell you’ve done that a few times,” our neighbour said. Well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt them. And then a lady who had a neighbour who owned a Snowy bailed us up for an hour, and after that it was time to catch up with Mike.
Mike suggested Thai for dinner, and it didn’t really bother me too much because it was mostly going to be me feigning interested in telescopes and nebulae, but genuine interest in Mike’s recounts of his minglings with the King of Bhutan. We ended up at Dee’s Vintage Thai Restaurant in Ruthven Street (which I think is the only street in Toowoomba). Talk about genuine 1973 prices! Well, maybe not quite, but two courses for three people, including a bottle of wine, was $104. The mains were so big that we all took home leftovers, and the owner brought over the ‘doggy-bags’ automatically. The, when I went to pay, I handed over $105 in notes and he gave me the $5 note back. “No, I discount you!” But perhaps the loveliest thing about this restaurant, was that someone had the job of making origami water lilies out of yellow serviettes and gently placing them in every wine glass on every table. Hunger sated, we bid our farewells to Mike and headed back to the Big 4 to call it night.
Oh – nearly forgot. We think we have officially become “good nomads” (nobody needs to mention the grey). We knew we would encounter a lot of truck and we weren’t, disappointed, so when one was up our backside, we used the trucking channel 40 to call him around. As he passed us, he gave us a hearty toot of his horn and wished is the best for our holiday. We were a little bit chuffed – plus we have seen Stephen Spielberg’s early ‘made-for-TV’ movie Duel, starring Dennis Weaver, and an angry pair of hands driving an even angrier truck. Much better to get on their good side!
The Tent, The Trailer, The Caravan 