Saving for the next big trip

The next trip may be quite a way off but I would like to be ready to roll when the time comes. This school term I think I will offer some literacy coaching at Cory's school. His class seems to be very slow moving the kids along. As he is the best in his class, that should give me some credibility. I was going to volunteer in his class as well - but volunteering doesn't pay very well! Just at the moment, though, I am not keen on an early start to get to the school so I will wait till Winter is over. I am also hoping to offer some professional development for teachers at the beginning of next year. There are at least 10 schools within a ten-minute drive of home. I will draw up an outline and get it out soon. That pays well and is over in a few hours and it adds up if I do a few sessions. Just recently I signed up with eLance which is an online business site. I have just completed my first job, taking three weeks to do. To get established, it is necessary to bid low for tasks. I was not quick and I am sure that I was paid about $3 an hour max so I have to get better paying jobs or work much faster. I will browse the site again and see what is offering. I'd really prefer to do speech writing and document proof-reading. I will try to do enough work to get a positive profile as it is something I could do while I am travelling. I have done a post research project for at least the past three years. I just receive mail and enter it online daily. It pays about $150 every two months - not much but not a big time commitment either. There are a lot of small jobs out in the wide world but I really should look into training projects. A few days a year provides a nice little boost to my travel fund. I just haven't felt motivated enough to start anything since I got home. It is time to get myself moving.

That was the easy part

Keeping my blog up to date was fun and easy. Now I am trying to print it as a book- not so easy and not much fun! I wrote it in blogspot because I was told it was simple to turn into a book. I have tried several publishing sites and have finally settled on Blurb. After endless frustration, I have uploaded the photos and 'slurped' the text into my book, quite a quick process once we knew what needed to be done. Unfortunately I have to edit each page individually and am now at page 15 of what will be about 150 pages of a large landscape hardcover book. Getting to that stage has cost me hours of ironing. My very patient and IT savvy daughter got me started while I slaved over her hot iron in return. The Caravan and Camping Show was on in Brisbane this weekend and I wandered around dreaming of what I would buy and where I would go if I won the lottery. Much as I love my little Lucida, I can't afford to run two cars so I will get rid of the van soon. It needs a service and I will also get it detailed in the next few weeks. I am sure I am still carrying round Tasmanian sand from the sand storm in Queenstown which got into every crevice. It looks okay and runs well but a thorough detailing won't go astray.

A backward Glance

Now that I am home after my first foray into long term travel, I have found it interesting to look back over those four months. I enjoyed the experience on a lot of different levels and for different reasons.

I have called myself a Gypsy as I loved the romantic connotations of the gypsy life which I used to read about as a child. In many of my childhood books the gypsies used to arrive in town, park in the common and add an element of excitement, even danger, for the local residents. Sometimes they set up stalls with exotic items to sell or they told fortunes for some lucky kids or even (Shock! Horror! Shiver!) put a curse on the neighbourhood bully. The gypsies changed the atmosphere of a town while they were there. Their painted caravans and perhaps-stolen horses added an extra frisson of anticipation.

I was obviously destined to be a low-key gypsy. I don’t know whether I ever made any impact on a town or whether those who lived there cared much whether I was there or not. What I do hope is that I inspired even two or three people to expand their horizons and begin to dream a little. I found that women were more likely to ask about my journeys and that single women in particular began to talk about  stepping out of their comfort zones and taking more risks in their lives.  I couldn’t even call myself an up-market gypsy as my Toyota Lucida is only a very small step up from a painted caravan drawn by horses. When I get to the luxury motorhome style of travel, I’ll consider myself upgraded.

But the Silver part of Silver Gypsy is a term I have earned over my lifetime. I started life as a flaming redhead, mellowed to a deep auburn and, during the past ten years have gradually expanded my silver streak. I have become more conscious of this since one of my nieces (thank you Kate!) told me that my hair was all silver and gold – at a time when I was sure it was gold and silver. I thought that a few months and a number of missed hair-dresser sessions would change all the gold to silver. It hasn’t quite happened but I think I can legitimately claim the Silver part of my title.

During my trip, I often felt as though I was going backwards and forwards through time. While my hair was rapidly becoming silver and I was ignoring calls from my hair stylist, I was also neglecting to wear make-up. It was a hard decision to make, as I generally put on a face first thing in the morning. I have done this most of my adult life. The result, though, was the return of freckles! I haven’t had freckles on my face since I was in my teens, though I can’t say the same about my sun-scarred arms and legs. So here I am, ageing in the hair, moving rapidly backwards in my skin.

In terms of the family, I feel the same contradictions.  I left as the eldest daughter and eldest sister and have now found myself the matriarch of the family. As long as my mother was alive, no matter how low her physical and mental condition, there was always that generation older than me. I imagine Denis experienced the same feelings when Dad died. Yet, we were expecting both deaths and in many ways had already taken on a lot of the family responsibilities. It still comes as a shock. At the same time, my own children and grandchildren have been building their lives, moving forward in their careers and watching their kids grow and develop. Life goes on and I suppose it is the passing of a generation that really drives this home.

It is always interesting when you are travelling to find how different the pace of life is. Without clocks and calendars dictating activities, the pattern of living is far more relaxed. I loved the opportunity to come and go as I pleased, to move on if I was ready to move and to batten down if I wished. When I came home, although I quickly got back into the swing of things, for a while I did things consciously rather than with the unconscious ease of routine. I had to fit in with the timetables of the family. For them, this was just a continuation of life; for me it required adjustment.

Cory December 2011

Hudson June 2012

When I arrived home, Hudson was quick to tell me that he was four now and old enough to go camping. Cory had had two nights at Beachmere with me before I went away. For Hudson, the next step was for him to camp which we will do this week, all the way over at Scarborough. For the kids, even though they missed me, it was as if my life hadn’t continued while I was away. Perhaps that is the ego-centricity of young children, that others only exist in relation to them. Whatever the reason, I have to adjust to them, not the other way around. 

So far I haven’t got involved in my usual social activities. It seems to be more difficult to wind myself up again than I had expected. Generally my weeks would be full, two or three mornings occupied with classes and most evenings filled with club meetings. I have certainly realised that nobody is indispensable as all my clubs and groups have continued to operate and grow without me. I will try to develop the same philosophy to my activities as to my journey – I don’t have to change the world (or my little part of it). I can accept it, as I accepted the weather and whoever parked alongside me, or I can pack away my goods and move on. There are not many things in my social life which should be stressful. If they are, I can change my attitude or change my location. Simple, in theory!

Being accepted by a group has been important to me. As a child, and well into adult life, I was excruciatingly shy and never felt that I was welcome in a group. Looking back, I realise that this was just my perception because I was so sensitive and self-conscious. Fortunately most of that insecurity has passed and I am able to accept others for who they are and expect them to do the same for me. I have had this brought home to me clearly in the last few weeks.  Since Mum’s death and in the weeks leading up to it, I have been overwhelmed by the support offered by  family and friends, including representatives of most of the activities I am involved in, Toastmasters, my tap dance group and Red Hat friends and other social groups.  What really touched me was the support of fellow travellers, those I met on the road and others who have only met me through my blog or travel forums. It reinforced the feeling of community that develops among people with shared interests. Friendship and camaraderie don’t have to be of long standing to be sincere and genuine.

I have learnt other lessons while I have been away.  Spending four months in a car designed for town driving with few adaptations has told me that yes, size does matter. For a few months, this was quite comfortable and generally all I needed. Now that I have the taste for travel again, I know that next time I will be away for a much longer time and I’d like to take some of the comforts of home with me. That will mean slightly larger transport, a better bed and a bit of room to move around.

I have decided that dirt roads and detours are part of the fun of travel and that a white line is not a necessity. Some sites that are stumbled on by accident are among the best around. In fact, although other nomads are quick to share their experiences, I do wonder if they sometimes keep their favourite places secret – like fishermen who are very vague about where they got a good haul.  I found also that fellowship is always on offer whether you stay at a caravan park, in a reserve or national park, or just on the side of the highway. Anyone who feels alone on the road must have made the decision to be alone.

Here in Australia we have the contrasts of the seasons, of scenery and society and we become more conscious of it when we have chosen to get out of our house-bound routines.  We can choose to travel by the sea or in the outback, to be with others or alone, to move slowly or swiftly.  But, whether we are in a basic van or a luxury rig, in a car or on a bike, there is the same starry, open sky above and the same earth beneath our wheels. We are wanderers in a wide and wonderful world.

My daughter has threatened to put my OMG photo on my coffin if I don't use at least one respectable photo of myself on this blog. When I have done that, I will consider my blog complete. Thank you for accompanying me on this journey.

Farewell to a Wonderful Woman

I have been asked to share the text of the eulogy I wrote and delivered at Mum's funeral today. There were many comments afterwards. Whether my listeners were my siblings, Mum's grandchildren, my cousins or neighbours of my parents each told me that I had captured the essence of my mother for them. As each of them knew Mum in a different way, I thought that it was interesting that they could extract their own recollections from my words.

I am honoured, on behalf of my brothers and sisters, to pay tribute today to my mother Enid Therese O’Rourke. We are all grateful to see so many family and friends gathered to say farewell to a woman, who in her 91 years of life, touched so many. She was strong of spirit and gentle in nature. She had great expectations of all of us but without pressure. But her pride in our accomplishments was enough to motivate us to persist and succeed.

Some of you know that for much of this year I have been on an extended driving holiday in the southern states. In that time I occasionally saw a wonderful phenomenon that was unfamiliar to me – the sunrise! When I heard that Mum had had a stroke, I was in Adelaide and drove home over the next four days. Not only did I see the sunrise on those days but I was conscious of the long shadows cast by the early morning and late afternoon sun as I drove home. Reflecting on these shadows, I thought of how many lives had been touched by the shadow of my mother.

Mum was born Enid Therese Hardy in Mackay in 1920. In those days her morning shadow fell forward on her parents Annie Roderick and James Hardy and her four sisters and two brothers, all of whom have passed on except Aunty Claire who would have loved to be here today. Enid spent all her growing-up years in Mackay and worked there as a young adult.

It was there at a dance at the Catholic Club that she met John Toomey O’Rourke. They had a two year engagement because her father refused to let her marry an unemployed farmer at the end of the depression. She was asked to wait till she was 21 –and in those days kids were more likely to do as their parents asked! They made a handsome couple and I cherish a photo of them both in swimsuits from neck, not quite to knee but certainly with a short leg – yes Dad too! Apart from dancing, Mum played a bit of sport – vigoro at school and later tennis.

They started a family which eventually consisted of 13 children, all of whom are here today – including Margaret who has just staggered off a 36 hour trip from Canada. In the early years of their marriage Dad was in the armed forces and away for long periods of time, some of which she spent at Traveston with Dad’s family and I know Granny and Grandfather were very fond of her and Mum of them.

As the family grew, she moved to Nambour, to Caboolture for nearly ten years and then to Scarborough. Dad always said that they got married, had thirteen kids and Mum never worked again. Amazingly enough, she did find time for years to play social tennis and was in the Gerard Majella Mother’s group. It was not unusual for a young mother in the parish to arrive at home, overwhelmed by the demands of a new baby or a difficult child. After drawing on Mum’s considerable experience, the new Mum would wipe away her tears and know that she could cope, knowing also that the advice Mum gave was tried and true.

I guess the way we all turned out as adults was due in part to her attitude to life, her child raising philosophies - and her good strong tennis arm. Although we always said she couldn’t hit the side of a barn, her aim was good enough to fell Rod one day. He was obviously in strife and raced away down the back steps to escape Mum who just happened to have an empty jam tin in her hand. One good lob and he was down! She then had the embarrassment of taking him to the doctor for stitches in his head. If that happened now, she would have ended up in jail for child abuse. Or maybe not, because then someone would have had to look after her rambunctious brood. Would you wish that on anyone?

Someone once referred to her as a feisty little thing. There was certainly not much that she couldn’t turn her hand to. I remember her climbing up on to the roof to rescue me. I had decided to get up on the high tank stand – because the boys used to! I climbed up the wall below, shimmied up between the tanks onto the roof – and there I stayed, too frightened to come down. Mum got a ladder and followed me up. She managed to talk me back to the tank stand but I wouldn’t come any further, and there I sat for two hours till Dad came home. Meanwhile Mum calmly went back to the kitchen to prepare tea. We learned to be self-reliant - though we might not have been very bright.

That stage of her life was probably the noon, the midday of her life. Her shadow was focused on family. In fact, I am not sure she even had time to cast a shadow in those days. Or else she moved so fast and so constantly that the shadow didn’t have time to fall. She was always busy. She made most of our clothes, cooked and cleaned and, in the evening, for entertainment, she folded the washing. We used to say the rosary every night, and on wash days before we started the rosary, we each had to take one end of a sheet and fold it. We left all the little bits for her – dozens of undies and hundreds of socks to sort and fold. And you know she actually folded socks. I can show you how if anyone wants to do it. Myself, I just roll them into roughly matching pairs.

Every morning we scurried off to school after breakfast and arrived back at 12.30 for lunch. It was easier for her to set the table at home and have us back for lunch than to cut seven or eight or more lunches. Dad had a cut lunch, wrapped in a white linen serviette, every day of his working life. I am sure that whichever of my siblings was allocated the serviettes when Mum gave things away still starches and irons them for everyday use. I know it wasn’t me. I very generously allowed someone else to have them.

Meals were an important part of the day. There was always a tablecloth for every meal and cutlery set properly and we were reminded of our manners. As the crowd around the table grew, we also learned to sit and eat with our elbows close to our bodies, not stuck out to the side because there was always another small body close on each side. That was despite the specially made, extra long, red laminex table that always seemed able to squeeze in one more person.

Without ever having it spelled out exactly how to do it, we knew that we had to have a good education. If we had a question of any sort about education or a career we were referred to Uncle Ted. Between him and Mum and Dad, we were set on the right track. But as they say, you can be on the right track but if you don’t move you’ll get run over. We all settled into our careers with the requisite initial qualifications. The inspiration of our parents was most obvious in our continuing education. Almost all of us went on to get added qualifications usually with night study and distance education either specific to our work or to allow us to move forward. Tony estimates an additional fifteen degrees, diplomas, grad dips and masters qualifications as well as ongoing certification need within our careers. That was on top of the best education my parents could afford to give us, at considerable personal sacrifice.

Yet none of this ever seemed to be a problem. I rarely saw Mum hot under the collar. She was incredibly calm in most situations. I think some of our neighbours must have wondered how she remained sane and I’m sure some of them were surprised she didn’t want to murder us all at times. She insisted she never felt that way. (I really think she had a fairly flexible memory for some things!) I do know she was able to make the most of what we’d now refer to as‘Me Time’. She always had an afternoon rest and was able to lose herself in a book or a crossword or a jigsaw puzzle.

As well as our own tribe, there were constant visits from aunts and uncles and cousins. Aunts Pat, Rena and Moya are here today and a lot of cousins who were our partners in crime. Mum always had a cuppa on for the adults while we kids ran wild together – playing hidey in the linen cupboard and under beds and telling ghost stories in the dark. We did things when our cousins were there that we would never have done at any other time. Mum took it well – she probably realised that the cousins just let us astray! Yes her shadow fell on the wider family or maybe they moved closer into her shadow.

As we slowly but inevitably left home, Mum and Dad became even closer. Unless one of them was in hospital or something equally unusual they didn’t spend a day apart in 67 years until Dad had to go into a nursing home. We saw their love played out there on a daily basis as Mum spent most of the morning and all afternoon with Dad for nearly two years.

When he died in 2007, I think something died in Mum too. Her daily routine was shattered and, although the wider family continued to grow, the man at the core of her heart had moved on. From them she gradually faded away. She spent most of those four years without him, in care, here at St Joseph’s and then at Penola. The care she received in her twilight years was wonderful and it is lovely to see the Sisters and Penola staff accompanying Mum today on her last journey. I know her journey into the darkness of the night was made with the certainty of a new day dawning with her beloved John.

Friends and family here today and the many who have sent messages of condolence are all part of the history of Enid Therese Hardy O’Rourke. As a family we are very grateful to you all for being here today but most especially for being part of the life of our mother. You will remain in our hearts as I hope Mum remains in yours.

Her evening shadow had lengthened over the years to encompass her 13 children, 31 grandchildren and 30 great-grandchildren – and those in the future who won’t know her in person but will be influenced by the family values which she has passed on to three generations. Her shadow is the shadow of love and we continue to live in its shade as she rests now in peace.

RIP Enid Therese Hardy O'Rourke

My dear mum died early this morning after a ten day struggle since having a stroke. She was 91 and left 13 children, 31 grandchildren and 30 great-grandchildren. She will be missed by those, and a wide circle of family and friends. She will join her husband John who died four years ago after a marriage lasting 67 years. To all those who have been following my blog, thank you for all your messages of support.

My Guardian Angel is a Ditherer

After four long days of driving between 400 and 680 km a day, I arrived home safely on Sunday and went straight to Penola Nursing Home to see Mum. She had been unconscious for seven days by then, had lost her swallowing mechanism and wasn't able to eat or drink. When I got close to home, family members told her I was on my way and she definitely responded to me when I arrived, trying to open her eyes, moving her mouth and holding my hand tightly. She didn't regain consciousness but seemed just heavily asleep. Since then she has barely moved but continues to hold on. Her breathing is slow but still regular and her pulse is still visible at the base of her throat. Beyond that, she is slowly slipping away.  I am sure she knows we have all said goodbye and there is sometimes a slight movement of the eyes when several of us are there and talking. It seems incredible that the human spirit can hold on so long. Poor dear Mum. It is a long hard struggle even to let go. I am spending several hours a day with her, as are most of my siblings.

My trip home was memorable only by its lack of variety. My purpose was to get home quickly and safely. I stayed in motels each night because I wanted to be rested enough to face a long drive. After poking around for months, sometimes doing less than a hundred kilometres over a few days, each day seemed longer than the one before. Despite a good sleep, I made an early start each day and drove for an hour or so before stopping for breakfast. After another hour or so, I needed to pull over and sleep before moving on towards lunch. (This was the time I would have been waking up in my other life.) An afternoon nap was needed to get me to my destination each evening. After Adelaide, I stopped at Mildura, Ardlethan, Gilgandra and Toowoomba - four days to get home after four months getting to Adelaide!


My GPS angel is Kerry and I have decided that she is a ditherer. She finds it hard to get going and to make a decision. Once we are on the way, she is generally efficient. But when I key a destination into her litte memory, she immediately says something like, Continue 150 metres. By the time I've done that, she's telling me to make a U-Turn. Then suddenly she wants me to make another U-Turn and go back the way I was already heading. She seems to get into a panic for a minute or two. Unfortunately this is the minute or two that I am getting into a panic also as I try to decide which way to go. It is not a good time for either of us. I am trying to remember if I made a turn when I stopped or if I am still facing in the direction I was travelling. So, while I am driving up and down the same stretch of road, I try to get a decision from her before I commit too much trust to her directions.


I have a real problem with the concept of GPS. I have had it explained to me. In fact, I heard an interview with one of the voices of TomTom who talked about the process and how all the information needed was recorded in about 50 hours. That I find impossible to comprehend. How can one person take millions of drivers through any part of the world with just a few directions? Perhaps it is possible with generic instructions like, Turn left in 200 metres, though I still find that hard to believe. How does she ever know to say, Turn left into Ascot Avenue in 200 metres? And I don't care if she is attaching herself to six or seven satellites. And how does she do that anyhow? As Professor Julius Sumner-Miller used to ask, How is it so? (Or was that, Why is it so?)


I have decided that there is really only one way for us to get personal attention from those satellites and friendly GPS voices. I believe that we are each given a guardian angel (separate from the one who walks with us all the time) who comes with the GPS when we buy it.  The angel probably is given the choice of who to work with because I am sure I have been targeted (I mean, chosen) by a specific angel.


By the end of my career, I can honestly say that I was a very good teacher, maybe even an exceptional teacher - without being too boastful. But in my early days, I am sure there were students who didn't do as well as they should have. I think I have one of my early students as my angel. I also think that she was very happy with her education and thought I taught her well. That is why she is so obliging but panics a bit because she wants to do well for me. Before I became immersed in literacy teaching, I may not have been quite as specific as I was later about syllabification and pronunciation. This could well by why her intonation is often odd, with the emphasis put on the wrong syllable. But she does try and she is consistent. (That sounds like something I may have written on her report card.)


Unsurprisingly with me for a teacher, Kerry Angel sometimes has problems with maths.She doesn't differentiate between 100 and 110 kmh zones and keeps beeping me for speeding when I am pushing along at the right speed. She also misses a speed sign occasionally. I am not sure how she gets her messages. There is probably a little beam of light coming from the top of the sign post. I see a number, she sees a light. The other issue with her is that she can tell me one minute that there is a petrol station 17.8km away. When I tap that in, she changes her mind and tells me to do a U-Turn and go back 4km or continue 123km. I am never sure then whether she is just dithering again, if I  should turn back for 4km, hope that the 17.8 was right, or risk running out while I continue 123km.

When I had GPS Jane as my angel, she didn't give me nearly as many directions as Kerry does. My Toastmaster friend, Barrie, had suggested getting a GPS when I was travelling alone. He said I'd have someone talking to me. He was right, in a way. Jane talked to me through the area close to home that I already knew, got me as far as the Bruce Highway and said, Continue 288 km, and didn't talk to me again till then, unless I took a detour or stopped too long. On the other hand, Kerry tells me every 20km. She waits till I am in a white-line-induced trance and suddenly says, Continue 60km, which wakes me up with a start. When I am comfortably cruising again with my mind in neutral, I get Continue 40km, which is almost enough to stop the heart altogether with the unexpected voice contact. I am not sure whether Jane or Kerry is better to have on a long trip.

Chinese Doctor's Diversified Portfolio

From my limited knowledge of investing, I understand that the secret of wealth is to have a diversified portfolio to cope with the ups and downs of the share market. (I wanted to say the vicissitudes of the market, because that is an evocative word that I don’t have the opportunity to use often, but I think it is too grandiose for something as down-to-earth as a blog.) I was thinking of this today when I saw YP MEDICAL CENTRE and a bit later YP VETS. I was also musing on the fact that the easiest way for a foreign doctor to get established is to agree to practise in the smaller and more remote areas where Australian graduates don’t want to work and was mentally thanking Dr Yp and others like him who staff the less enticing towns. When I passed YP REFORESTATION SCHEME and YP POLOCROSSE, I finally consigned the good doctor to the rubbish bin and mentally replaced his name with Yorke Peninsula on other signs I saw along the way.

In Minlaten today I was fascinated by a World War 1 fighter plane, Red Devil. It may be the only remaining one of its kind in the world. Aircraft were new to the fighting arena in 1918 and the dimensions of this plane explain a great deal. This single-seat monoplane is 6.2 metres long with a wing span of 9.3 metres and stands 2.5 metres high. Its armoury consisted of an unsynchronised machine gun mounted on the fuselage and shooting through the propellers, a daunting task for the pilot already keeping the plane in the air at the great speed of 130mph.

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I have seen this sign several times
No follow-up sign, no explanation

I moved fairly fast yesterday and ended up spending the night at Parham beach just north of Dublin. I stopped for a couple of hours on the outskirts of Adelaide and met up with Cruisin' Granny (Chris) from the Grey Nomads Forum who is staying at a caravan park, for a relatively long term. She was puzzled when I gave her a twig from the beach tied up with a length of seaweed. It was  seaweed, salt and the smell of the sea to remind her of life on the road.

This afternoon I got a call from Denis to say that Mum has had a stroke so, although I have said my goodbyes many times over, I am heading for home in the morning. It will take me a few days to get home. I have just sent off a number of emails cancelling arrangments that I had made in Adelaide and other places. Nothing was urgent. Next trip perhaps?  When I get home I will add this to round off my blog and put a neat ending to my journey.

Power, a Shower and a Twin-Tub Washer

Just set up at Black Point

The Yorke Peninsula looks like a leg, with a large foot complete with a corn on the big toe, appropriately called Corny Point. I am at Black Point, on the calf of the leg. It is something between a caravan park and a campground. I had to register at a caravan park nearby and pay $15 a night. That gives me power which I don't usually bother with but will make sure everything is fully charged before I leave. There are old but clean toilets, hot showers and a laundry. I think my first flat ever had a twin-tub washing machine so it will be interesting working out again how it operates. At no cost to operate, it is worth washing my jeans which are beginning to stand up by themselves when I take them off. Then I can rinse them in the concrete wash tubs.

I was a bit concerned that this might be an almost deserted camp but there are seven groups here in an area that only holds ten so it is quite cosy. Some are just overnighters and others are here for a few days. I've paid for two nights and will see how I go then. I have rediscovered my need to be near the sea. Bush camping has left me as cold as the rare bush showers. As soon as I see the water, I feel at home. This was how I used to feel when I hit the Hornibrook bridge whenever I'd been away from Redcliffe for any length of time. I must have salt water in my veins.

This is my third night here. Two sets of neighbours (Marion and Harry and Yvonne and Robert) arrived when I did and are both staying on. Two others arrived today after others left. The men and Marion have been fishing and got a few good sized whiting, obviously just enough to feed themselves for one meal as they were out again on the next tide.  It has been a very quiet day around the camp. I went for a walk on the beach again today, not too far or too fast. It is the Toastmasters Convention weekend in Brisbane and I feel a bit left out.  (I know, I left them not the other way around but convention is usually part of my Toastmasters year.) Sue has sent photos already and I have sent a message to Preeta who has worked all year as Convention Convenor and won't relax till the weekend is over.

Black Point is like many small beachside towns. Along the beach, right at the edge of the high tide are a number of shacks made with a variety of materials. These were probably squatters who came here for the fishing. Behind them along the top are some flash homes and rental units and houses and further along quite a few big houses that look as though they may have permanent occupants, as people realised that the owners of the shacks had found a beautiful place to live.  There seems to have been a competition to name the properties. There is The Butcher's Block, complete with illustration, Warren's Warren, Hawke's Nest, Black Point Hilton etc. There are also official road signs warning, Slow Down. Cars Appear from Nowhere and Kids Don't Bounce but Their Angry Parents Do and If You Crash Here, It Takes 20 Minutes For an Ambulance to Come.

I had expected to drive south and most of the way round the peninsula tomorrow but have scaled it down after talking to Wendy and Tom. They have a motor home with a closed trailer (I don't know what else to call it - mobile garage? skeleton caravan?) for their snazzy trike. They rode (triked?) around today and felt that they wouldn't have missed much if they had cut their ride short. So in the morning I will go as far as Port Vincent on the east coast then zigzag across to Stansbury and up the west coast, probably finishing at Maitland overnight which has a free camp area right opposite the hospital.

Across the Spencer Gulf to a Super Loo

From Cowell to Wallaroo, two hours in comfort on the Aurora V or many hours of driving. I chose the ferry for what the captain called a medium to rough crossing. I love to be on the water but this wasn't pleasant. I was pleased I dozed off and the time went quickly. I did get time to ask Carol, who was on the ferry, about the brown dog. She thinks it is an old farming saying which she got from her grandfather. Apparently brown dogs are meant to be the most tenacious and stubborn. When all the other dogs have been blown away in a high wind, they stand their ground. It takes a fierce wind to blow a brown dog off its chain. 

I am now on the Yorke peninsula. This area is called the Copper Coast and was originally settled by Cornish miners and there are many reminders of that heritage. At the moment I am sitting in Cousin Jack's bakery having a Cousin Jack's slice with my morning coffee. I could have had a cornish pasty - and probably should while I am in town.

Another reminder is the Red Hat group I visited yesterday in Moonta. They are called the Cousin Jennies of the Copper Coast. As well as their formal events, they meet each Wednesday for a games afternoon. I joined them at the home of Queen Vee for a hilarious game of Yahtzee.

Helen, Queen Vee (Viv), Queen Mum Robin

There are three towns very close together. After the afternoon with the ladies in Moonta, I stayed the night in Wallaroo and this morning drove the 8km to Kadina. I have a dental appointment at midday. I have either lost part of a filling or chipped a tooth. Either way, it has to be fixed before I move south. Apart from Kadina, there are only two dentists on the peninsula. I was lucky to get an appointment at short notice.

I have just been to an Exe-Loo. I don't usually use public toilets if I can avoid it. However, this was quite an experience. The building was a clean looking aluminium style with a flashing light outside to tell me that it was unoccupied. When I entered I was directed to lock the door and told I had a maximum of ten minutes. Soft music started, What the world needs now, to serenade me and soothe my stay. When I hit the button to unlock the door, I was thanked for using exe-loo. Excellent!

Blow a Brown Dog off its Chain

When you are snug and secure in your own home, the weather is fairly unimportant. Travelling, and especially camping, makes you extremely conscious of even minute changes. The past three days have been delightful, warm and sunny until now when I was told that it is windy enough to blow a brown dog off its chain. I've never heard the expression before. Is it a South Australian thing or have I just been talking to someone with a talent for words?

From Friday through till Tuesday morning, I stayed in Port Lincoln. Two nights were spent in a caravan park only steps away from the water. It is quite a large park, with perhaps 30 cabins, 50 powered sites and a large unpowered area which I mentioned in my Unanswered Questions blog. Around me were the usual mix of tents and campers. Once again there was a cyclist, this time from Switzerland, planning to ride completely around Australia in twelve months. As he has only come (only!!) from Melbourne so far, it looks to me as though he will be in Darwin by the middle of the wet season. But who am I to discourage anyone! I wish him luck.

Friday night I stopped in a motorhome parking area. A woman at the information centre was very definite that it was for motorhomes only. I pointed out that it was the Campervan and Motorhome Association (which I belong to) that negotiated with councils for parking areas and I left her to draw the conclusion that perhaps she was wrong. However, I did drive up to look at it and it definitely said that it was for motorhomes only. I can justify my existence in a place like that. After all I am in a motor and for the moment it is my home, ergo a motorhome. Unfortunately the sign was very specific, no caravans, campervans or tents and I really have to class myself as a small campervan, not a micro motorhome.

She suggested a free camp called Fishery Bay which she told me was on a good dirt road and a nice quiet area. That was half right. It was not a good road, very potholed in places but it was quiet. It was so quiet that there was only one other person there, a long term camper with a stack of lobster pots and a dog as big as a shetland pony. I braved the bad road again and went back to town. Feeling like a criminal, I had dinner in town and waited till after dark and crept out to the parking area, where I squeezed myself in among several caravans (yes, lawbreakers!) and motorhomes. I even woke early and left while the dew was still on my windscreen. That's when I booked into the caravan park.


During the next days, as well as visiting a winery and a museum and a very well stocked Aboriginal Art Centre, I found another area also designated motorhome parking. It looked a little more secluded, with one rig already set up there.  I think it is important to have more than one person parking even in an approved area, just for safety and security. So I conveniently parked my conscience and my van there ovenight. I was actually doing a civic service.


I pottered northward along  the gulf today. After a good hour on the road I called in to Tumby Bay and then stopped at Arno Bay for lunch - just a coffee and a muffin. I had a huge plate of veges last night and I don't want to overdo the healthy eating bit. I might get a taste for real meals. I have once again settled into a small caravan park, quite near the ferry that I've booked on for tomorrow. There are a lot of permanent or long term caravanners here. I was invited to join a big group tonight having a bbq to celebrate the owner's birthday. I don't think I will bother. I can't believe I even said that!  Me, the Silver Socialite! But it is windy and it is cold and I've put my bedsocks on. I really don't want to socialise with a big group who all know each other. It's not like going to a Toastmasters meeting or a Red Hatters lunch where I have a common interest. I know it wouldn't be a problem. I can fit into any group but I am going to be unsociable tonight.

Images of South Australia

Tantanoola Caves

Christine's Doll Collection, Port Lincoln

Kangaroos in Town, Coffin Bay

The Whyalla

Oyster Farm Coffin Bay

Wedding Cake, Tantanoola Caves

National Park Lookout, Coffin Bay

Australian Farmer Memorial, Wuddina

High Cliff, south of Streaky Bay

Adelaide

Glenelg

Adelaide

Cleaning fish, with hopeful viewers

Port Lincoln

Life is Full of Unanswered Questions

I can understand why the early Dutch explorers just sailed by. If they could survive the treacherous coastline, they would have considered the land totally useless. The only things that seems to grow are rocky outcrops. Stretching into the distance in all directions are rocky hills, boulders and stones. What I don't understand is the need to have the paddocks fenced. Usually the fences are rather ricketty structures topped with barbed wire. Is this to stop the small rocks (aka stones) from getting out onto the road and getting gravelled?

I can understand that caravan park owners have to make a living. I can understand that the season is relatively short. What I don't understand is why they make it so expensive that campers often can't afford to stay there. I am sure that if rates were slightly lower, there would be a higher income from people staying longer or even staying in preference to national parks. Here in SA an overnight in a NP costs $9 entry and another $ 5 - 9 per person (depending on how old you are) per night. To then go into town and find a shower may be another $2 or $3 plus the fuel to get there. The twenty dollars I paid in Elliston was money very well spent, where they gave me a solo's rate. When rates are more than $30 I have to think twice about staying. And why do most of them charge me the same in my very small camper (and only one person) as two people in a huge rig often with trailers and other attachments?

I can understand that people who live locally have to go about their daily business. I know they have places to go and things to do while I wander around playing tourist. What gets to me is the total intolerance some drivers have for someone who is obviously lost and obviously a visitor with interstate license plates. Many of these men (and I am being deliberate in my choice of words) would admit that the tourist dollar helps keep the economy afloat in a lot of isolated townships. If pushed, they would probably also admit that one rude driver more than balances out the goodwill generated by ten welcoming locals. What I don't understand is how they think that a long loud blast of the horn, with or without the accompanying hand gestures, helps either driver.

I can understand that councils set time limits on parking near shops and in city centres. It means that drivers move on and free up parking spaces, so that more people can spend their money. What I don't understand is why there would be a 4 hour limit on the foreshore in Port Lincoln when parking is regulated from 8.30am to 1pm. Why would you be expected to move your car for half an hour?

.A bronze sculpture of Makybe Diva has pride of place in the grassed area along the waterfront. Her owners lived here but she never visited. I can understand, though, that the people of Port Lincoln have claimed her as their own. The process of making the sculpture was interesting. A base was made of timber, it was covered and shaped with plasticine and then bronzed. What I don't understand is where they would have been able to get 5000 kg of plasticine. Every school in Australia must have been having to make their own play dough for years.

In a caravan park, there is a hierarchy of visitors and I can understand that. Those contributing most to the park owners are those who stay in self-contained cabins at about $150 or more a night. They provide work for cleaners and laundry workers but, as cabins cater for 6-8 people, they are self sufficient and don't mix with the regular campers. Then there are the owners of caravans and motorhomes who use the powered sites and generally have an amenities block close by, which they use in preference to their own facilities which have to be topped up, emptied etc. They pay around $30 - 40 depending on the quality of the park. Spread around the outskirts of the park are those who use unpowered sites, those in tents, cars and people like me who don't bother with power. However, we also pay well for the privilege, usually between $20 and $30 a night. The most important thing for us is the ability to use the showers and toilets. What I don't understand is why a caravan park like the one I am in now puts the amenities right up among the self-contained cabins for those people who don't need to use the amenities. From my camp site, the walk is at least 200m and that is a long way uphill, past the cabins, in the dark with your legs crossed. (Fortunately the smaller parks are more accessible.)

I understand how simple life is with a GPS system. Some are easier than others to follow. Unfortunately GPS Jane died a lingering death along the way. She has been replaced by Kerry who has very odd intonations. I was so pleased to get off juBILLee highWAY west that it was worth getting lost to try to clear my mind of her directions. What I can't understand is how people get out of a town without a GPS. It is easy to get in as you often directions for hundreds of kilometres. Once you get into a town, or worse a city, there are no signs until you get on the road out. It is possible (not that I do it!) to drive along every likely road before finding the first sign to where you want to go, often 5 or 6km out of town. I have a system. Just like a search and rescue team, I work a grid of ever-widening blocks till I hit the edge of town. You can be lost for a long time. Thanks Kerry, for small mercies. At least you get me on the right road, even if you drive me crazy along the way

Playing Ladies

Once I settled into the caravan park in Elliston, put up my awning and set out my table and chairs, I had a couple of days just to rest and ramble. Unsurprisingly I wandered around the very small town and checked out the coffee shop and the bakery. Decisions! Decisions!

I had lunch at the cafe one day and shared a table with a couple of the local ladies who were part way through their daily walk for fitness, stopping for sustenance along the day. They said that sometimes there were a whole stack of them walking, six or seven when they were all there and they spread out right across the road. I thought that was a pretty safe place to be most of the time.

Eventually I settled on the bakery where they do a good business and have the people skills to bring their customers back. On my second visit, Ros knew my order and just about had it ready for me. By the third day, I was a regular for brunch. Ilona was interested in my van and talked with me (oh well, listened to me) about my travels. They deserve to have a good business. If they are so friendly with people who will be gone in a few days, they must have a very loyal clientele. And they do have the best vanilla  slices in the southern hemisphere - or maybe in Australia - or at the very least, in South Australia. I am a connoisseur. You can trust me on this!

From the lookout

Sunset, Coffin Bay from Kay's verandah

My hostess Kay in Coffin Bay

Baby Jumpers for Zambia Mission

Still playing ladies, I went on to Coffin Bay where I had arranged to meet Red Hat Queen Kay at her home for coffee. I ended up camping in her driveway when we had talked into the night. I will add Kay to my People of the Journey South Australia which I update regularly with some of the fascinating people I have met along the way. Kay's husband is at a mission in Zambia at the moment so I passed my knitted baby jumpers to Kay. (For those who donated wool to get me started on this project, I have attached a photo of the almost finished products, some needing to be stitched up but the knitting completed.) The big diaappointment with Coffin Bay was to find out that Matthew Flinders named it after his friend Isaac Coffin, a naval officer. I had imagined a more macabre origin to the name of the bay.

Christine, Oriel and another Red Hat doll

As they say, too much of a good thing is never enough. Today I drove across the peninsula, about 70km, to Port Lincoln where I met up with the Lincoln ladies for their Red Hat get-together. It was hosted by Christine who showed her collection of more than 600 dolls, including all her own from her childhood. The photo show Christine with Queen Rose (Oriel) and in the background, the Red Hatter doll that Christine had made.