Well, after three months in Oz I am finally allowed two hours of keyboard time to summarise my impressions! So here goes with no thought of competing with the literary genius who has been my travelling companion.

We travelled from a civilised southern area around Perth and as each mile north passed the more it became like the wild west. Small towns (pop 5000) separated from each other by hundreds of miles of unchanging outback. The place is huge in a way that has to be seen to be believed. The small habitations cling to the coast and inland are millions of acres of scrub traversed only by bumpy tracks that become impassable for long periods during wet weather. Every now and again a faded sign indicates a track to a homestead or ranch fifty miles into the bush.  Roadhouses miles from anywhere are positioned to feed the traveller and fill his fuel tank at outrageous prices, with no option and no competition you pay their rates. It is a land of space, huge skies, and magnificent sunrises and sunsets. Most isolated cattle ranches are over 1 million acres in size.

As ever interested in statistics, I’ve recorded the following:-

We travelled 5435 miles in the campervan. The return bus journey to Ayres Rock was 2250 miles.  Total travel over 8000 miles.  Total campervan fuel 253 gallons. Fuel usage 25.5 gallons per mile. Campervan hire plus fuel £5746.  Cheapest fuel 73.15p most expensive £1.05 average 89.6p per litre.  The campervan cost £1 per mile or £98 per day.  OK already! I can hear you yawning! 

The Australian in this area is deeply patriotic, as they are a young nation anything occurring or being built in the last century is considered historic. When visiting a homestead built in 1930 which is maintained as a museum it is difficult not remark that half the houses in our village at home are older and still lived in without a fuss. The Aussie seems hurt if one does not applaud everything Oz.  Not a clever soul, the average bloke finds difficulty with good morning, good afternoon or good evening and settles for ‘G’day’ even at midnight. The music is an exact replica of American country, everyone wears boots and wide brimmed hats. If you see any one dressed with dash or style you know it is a foreign, probably European, tourist.  The accent can grate and at times is impossible to understand.

The land is rich in gold, tin, iron, uranium and other minerals.  Having successfully stolen the land from the Aboriginals who lived here for fifty thousand years before the arrival of the white man they have given huge tracts of it back to ‘ The Abo’. The black fella then leases the land back to the white fella for lots of money and spends much of his time drunk and sad sitting around town.  The Abo (driven by fat cat lawyers) has retained some control and, if an elder feels that one of the sacred sites has now to be protected, mine leases are not extended with the loss of thousands of jobs and national income. One miner remarked that Australia is the only country that makes national decisions by voodoo. Dependant on who you speak to the aboriginal is viewed as either a lazy good for nothing black fella living on handouts or as the noble and ill treated original owner of the land and an important part of the heritage.

I am not sure which is true but I do wish they would wash more often.

I really enjoyed watching the Wallabies play England in Perth.  Whilst it can be hard to be gracious in defeat the Aussie cannot even manage to be gracious in victory – we were surrounded by a loud, enthusiastic and rude set of supporters. 

Australian Rules Football (AFL) seems to bring out all the worst traits that we see in UK with Soccer supporters. Bad manners, drinking, no sportsmanship and a total lack of respect.  It is an odd game where passes or kicks are allowed forward or backwards and tackles are reckless and dangerous. They have a goal and then a zone either side so if the little darlings miss they get a consolation point!    

Signs on the back of Wicked Camper Vans always amused, I think Bev did the whale and Jap one.  My favourite was a particularly tatty van driven by two stunning Swedish ladies which read ’A hard man is good to find’.

I have enjoyed the whole experience, seen some amazing sights and even come to enjoy the forthright and honest Aussie.  Top for me was our Dunsborough/Perth experience and thanks go to Jock and Arunee and Bas and Angela. 

Happy travelling depends on your company and Bev has withstood the pressures and difficulties of travelling with me with a smile. Thank you my darling.

"I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out if you like people or hate them than travel with them." - Mark Twain.

"The world is a book and those who don’t travel read only one page." - St Augustine.

"The traveller is active; he goes strenuously in search of people, of adventure, of experience. The tourist is passive; he expects interesting things to happen to him." - Daniel.J.Boorstin.

"If you come to a fork in the road, take it." - Yogi Bear

That’s all folks!

PARISH NOTICE – I have the unexpected pleasure of good wi-fi in Singapore, so this final blog is being uploaded sooner than expected. When we get to Marseille, I will upload Alan’s Australia blog and set up a page simply to record our travel plans.

24^th Aug – One of the attractions within walking distance of us is a place where they feed wild fish, including barramundi, salmon and catfish, which have been coming to a particular part of the Darwin foreshore for 26 years to be hand-fed by the person who lived there. It is now a commercial operation that charges $11 per adult to join a crowd of people all pushing and shoving to stand in the water on a narrow boat ramp and hand-feed the fish.  Alan loved the fish feeding (further evidence of the little boy inside!), but my reasoning is that I can go to Frost’s Garden Centre near home and see big fish for free. Finally it has dawned upon me what ‘the Australian Way’ is – it’s charging London, Paris and Rome prices for Craggy Island entertainments!  Also, when you have swum with manta ray and whale sharks, who needs to feed a barra? I’d rather eat one!

In the evening we had our second ‘buy a drink and get one free’ backpacker meal at The Vic. Not the nicest surroundings in which to dine, but economically it made good sense.

25^th Aug – This morning we caught a bus out to the Aviation Heritage Centre, drawn in particular by the B52 that is on display there. This immense machine did not disappoint. It towered over everything else in the museum and I complained that there was no way to get the whole thing into a camera shot. Other items included a Huey Cobra, a Westland Wessex, a replica Spitfire, a Mirage and a Sabre to name but a few.

A long, hot wait for a bus back into town for lunch, then ‘home’ to sort through our belongings, saying a reluctant farewell to many of the little bits and pieces we gathered up during our time in the campervan. One thing I have hung on to is my plunger coffee mug, which allows me to have lovely fresh coffee without making a whole pot. And it keeps the coffee warm for ages. At the end of the afternoon, our rucksacks were full, and noticeably harder to zip up than before – a bit like my skirts and trousers since arriving in Australia.

In the evening we attempted to put into action our long-term plan to celebrate our last night in Oz with a more upmarket meal than we have become accustomed to, however, when Alan did his recce yesterday, he could only find a few big hotels in addition to the high street bars and restaurants. Not exactly what we had in mind. So we ended up having a drink in the Duck’s Nuts (sorry, it sounds rude but often things do in Australia!) and dinner in the Hog’s Breath. As well as offering a very good steak, this fairly average and decent restaurant also provided entertainment in the form of a blond girl who appeared to be trying to punch a member of staff. Thankfully she left having inflicted no visible damage. Normally we just read about this kind of alcohol-fuelled disorder in the papers next day, as we are at home and tucked up in bed when it happens. This was only about 9pm, so she must have started early.

26^th Aug – A taste of the backpacker life in Darwin:

4am: walk down the corridor to the toilet, jump out of my skin when I bump into the night manager.

4:30am: almost asleep again when a catfight between two very drunk women kicks off on the pavement outside our window. Lots of big ‘F’s and a parting of the ways.

Minutes later: ‘boom-boom, boom-boom’ as some bogon in a Holden with the music up and the windows down comes cruising past. I hope the girls are safely out of harm’s way.

5am: finally drifting off when the nearby shower room door bangs and someone starts splashing away. Lasts a very long time – maybe one of the drunken girls trying to sober up?

5:30am: people frying bacon in the kitchen next to the shower room and chatting away as if it were the middle of the day.

6am: someone else in the shower – didn’t know the sound of splashing water could be so annoying.

7:30am: the pile driver across the road, that has been here as long as we have, kicks off its working day.

8am: I am just getting out of the shower when the door opens. Some boy apologises and beats a hasty retreat. I am sick of dodgy bathroom door locks.

After more than a few missed calls between us, we managed to arrange to meet Reg today. He missed one of my calls because he couldn’t hear the ring tone as he was mowing his airstrip at the time. Of all the ways to miss a call, this must be the coolest! I missed his because of the pile driver across the road.

Reg picked us up on the esplanade and took us to a really lovely place for lunch – the sort of place we had been hoping to have our last evening meal in. It is the Darwin Sailing Club and, as you would expect, it commands a beautiful view of the sea. The food was excellent, too. Alan had grilled barramundi (yes, one of his new best mates!), chips and salad. I had a smoked salmon and avocado salad. We were genuinely delighted when Reg won his first longest chip competition in fine style with a whopper at least six inches long.

After lunch, Reg showed us just some of the things we had missed during our time in Darwin, including some lovely suburbs and wonderful beaches, Lake Alexander, the Convention Centre, and the jetty, where there are wall-to-wall restaurants of the sort we love, all with wrap-around sea views! We also went to the museum where we saw a shocking display about the carnage wreaked by Cyclone Tracey in 1974. Also the biggest croc ever, now stuffed for posterity. With typical Aussie humour, his name is Sweetheart.

 Arggghhhhh! All these things we nearly missed, but at least got to see a little of, thanks to Reg! Mind you, if we had spent a whole 12 days in Darwin as originally intended instead of dashing off to Alice Springs, we would probably have ventured further. As it is, without a car, we had to be selective. We have threatened Reg that, should we come back to Darwin, he is to be our full-time tour guide. He didn’t seem too bothered by this, in fact, he would even go as far as to be our hotel as well.

Reg really did look after us royally, taking us back to Elkes backpacker place to collect our luggage, then to the airport. He is a man of tremendous courage and with a zest for life – especially aircraft. We have issued instructions for him to come and visit us and we hope he does. I have threatened him with introductions to a couple of my ‘plane’ crazy brothers. [Bros – Reg flies a Jabiru. Not sure exactly which model, you’ll have to ask him if you meet.]

[Reg – you probably won’t be reading this because you will be too busy out doing something, but thank you for being the cherry on top of the icing on top of the cake that was our trip to Australia!]

Our flight departed on time, we were on an Airbus 320 with the Australian airline ‘Jetstar’ – it’s the budget arm of Qantas. We took off as the sun was setting and, although I managed to catch a farewell glimpse of the beloved Dakota, the photograph is just a blur. But I can’t bring myself to delete it. And that was Australia. The place that drained pounds from our savings account and stuck them on my waistline. Friends and family, when I come to stay with you, you must be cruel to be kind – feed me only salads dressed with lemon juice and herbs, washed down with lots of water.  If you see me looking longingly at your lasagne, or gazing greedily at your gateau, just ignore me. Well, maybe just a little piece...

Goodbye, bogons and hoons; goodbye, words abbreviated and then appended with ‘ie’ (such as: ‘pollie’ – politician, ‘wedgie’ - wedge-tailed eagle); goodbye, slow-moving caravans with grey nomads and fast-moving road trains with massive loads; goodbye, Wicked campervans and ‘utes’; goodbye, hot sunshine and icy-cold beer; goodbye red dirt and turquoise sea; goodbye skippies and other amazing wildlife; and goodbye, g’day!

For me the flight seemed to last forever, worse than the 22-hour bus journey even though it was only four hours long. It was quite bumpy and there was lightening in the clouds off to our right over Indonesia. When we landed at Singapore, however, things were starting to look up. Our bags were almost first to appear on the carousel. I had told Alan that, as soon as we had our bags, we had to go straight to the Jet Airways (the Indian company we fly with next) desk to see if we could reserve our seats. At the best of times I am obsessed with getting a window seat near the back. This being a special occasion (the end of our ‘remote’ travels), I was like a thing possessed. As soon as the bags were on a trolley, I was off. Up the ramp to departures, speaking to the Information Desk, finding out that Jet Airways is in Terminal 3, reached by the Skytrain. On to the Skytrain, off at Terminal 3, which is an immense, modern building. From time to time I looked back to make sure Alan still had me visual. Bless him, he was burning rubber on the corners trying to keep up with me and my Trolley of Death.

Eventually we found the Jet Airways desk and I was able to reserve our seats. And relax! I had accomplished my mission. Meanwhile, back in the slow lane, Alan was not just coasting in neutral. He said, “There’s a hotel back there, do you think we should go and check out the prices?” “What hotel?” said I. He smirked, knowing that once again the tortoise was about to outsmart the hare. It turns out that one of the places I had passed in a blur was the Crowne Plaza Hotel. I reckon anything that adds ‘e’ to its crown and is a plaza is bound to be mega-expensive, but we agreed that we would set ourselves a guide limit of £80 (which was wishful thinking – although cheaper than Australia, Singapore is not like Thailand for prices). Alan went to find out how much for a double room and came back to announce that it would be around £150. I pursed my lips as I prepared to concede it was too expensive, then Alan added that it came with breakfast included. “Let’s do it!”

Oh my, oh my. Such luxury! A massive bed with snowy white linen! Carpet on the floor! Mirrors! A bathroom with a glass wall through to the bedroom, allowing one to lie in the bath and watch TV, the sound piped through a speaker in the bathroom ceiling! I couldn’t think of words to express how much I preferred this to spending the next 20+hours sitting in the terminal waiting for the hands of my watch to go round, so I just jumped up and down for a while, then executed a Fosbury Flop on to the bed. When Alan switched the TV on, the screen even had a personalised welcome message. The very best thing about all of this? We don’t have to check out until 3pm tomorrow as our flight to Mumbai leaves at 7:30pm. Well done, Minister of Finance. A master stroke to know when to relax the fiscal reins.

I have now taken Alan off eBay. Apologies to anyone who made offers, including Annika who was the highest bidder at $5.

27^th Aug – That was the best night’s sleep I have had in a long time. The bed is so comfortable and the sheets smell so clean, it was almost an inconvenience to go down to breakfast. It was one of those immense buffet breakfasts that they do so well in big hotels and we ate heartily before retiring back to the cocoon of our great big bed once more, where we spent the rest of the day reading and blogging, interrupted only by bathing, showering and cups of tea. There’s been lots of time for contemplation and it struck me I should mark the fact that it was Alan who inspired this whole adventure. If it weren’t for him, I would probably still be going to the gym three times a week at exactly midday, worrying about the latest scratch on the kitchen worktop, and coming home ranting about the crowds in Tesco. Despite our many adventures, I can’t say I have changed for the better and I hope he knows that his patience with my various little foibles continues to be appreciated. But then what would you expect from a man who went ahead and tied the knot, despite my Dad saying, “Do you know what you are taking on?” when Alan asked for my hand in marriage.

28^th Aug – arrive Marseille

Understandably, people ask what has been our favourite place. The honest answer is, for me, I don’t have one. Each place had wonderful sights and experiences I will never forget, such as: the forts in India and the solicitousness of Balram, our driver; Nepal for the walking in the Annapurna range and the paragliding; Thailand for the beautiful temples and scenery, and for some great diving; Lao and Cambodia for the resilience of these people who have suffered, and are still suffering, through the folly of their leaders; Cambodia also for its wonderful Angkor temples; Vietnam for having taken a pragmatic view of the world and enjoying the fruits of being more ‘westernised’; Indonesia for a privileged look at the exotic foods and spices we take for granted back home, growing in their natural environment; Flores (our southernmost island visited in Indonesia) for the Komodo dragons and for the truly exceptional diving; and, finally, Australia – it is an education to experience a country so vast and wild, and to think about how simple day-to-day things in the UK, such as recycling, education, emergency care, mail delivery, or even just getting about, need a different way of thinking.

Most of all, our experiences have been made richer by the people we have met. They are too many to mention all of them here, but have appeared in the blogs as we have travelled along. Worth special mention, however, are: Bob and Wanee in Thailand; Bas and Angela in Perth; Jock and Arunee in Dunsborough; Richard Luxton and Terry Burke in Batchelor; and Reg Connors in Darwin. All of these people made us feel that nothing would be too much trouble and followed this through with action. They each smoothed the way for us at different stages of our travels, or solved a problem, or simply opened the door to some exceptional memories that will stay with us forever. Thank you, thank you!

And thank you to everyone who followed our blog, especially to those who took time to send comments or to stay in touch by email. At this stage we are just now looking forward to seeing you all again and to hearing YOUR news – you already know ours!

Photos

Sunday 15^th Aug – Despite the party that took place until about 4am on the stairs outside our room, I got up early and full of energy. It’s difficult to be disciplined enough to take regular exercise when travelling. Of course, there is always an excuse to be lazy. Mine is that I did not want to be the sole topic of conversation for a whole caravan park. And no, I do not think that everyone wants to look at me, it’s just that anything that moves faster than a slow shamble is likely to cause a stir amongst the grey nomads. So, back in the bright lights of a big city that is full of all sorts of people of all ages doing all sorts of things, it was a pleasure to go for a little jog along the esplanade, the trotting interspersed with a few exercises using street furniture for support. My fun was complete when the Tiger Moth flew along the bay and executed a steep turn to come back again. 

Our intension was to spend our 12 days in Darwin doing museums, the theatre, walks, and just chilling out. This, as my mini-blog advised, was blown out of the water when we saw an ad outside ‘A-Z Cheap Travel’ for three-day camping tours around Uluru (Ayers Rock). We had resigned ourselves to not seeing this icon on our current trip, planning to come back some day to do the ‘Red Centre’ of Australia. But it seemed that this might just be within our reach in the time available. Add to this the fact that the thrill of the big city was already wearing thin, and we were ripe for the picking.

The young lass, Emma, who greeted us was one of those bubbly little personalities that seem to be mass-produced over here for the tourism industry. Her delivery was moulded in the ‘for young backpackers’ machine and this did not vary one jot to allow for our age. Everything was ‘awesome’ or ‘cool bananas’. She did check that we would be ‘cool’ with sleeping out in the open. Her jokey style and over the top language belied her knowledge and competence, which were second to none. We quickly learned that, unless we wanted to fly down at considerable expense, our best option was to catch the Greyhound bus from Darwin to Alice Springs (a 22-hour journey) tomorrow at midday, which would get us into town on the day before the tour. We would spend the night in backpacker accommodation ready for an early start the next day. After the tour we would do the same thing in reverse – a night in Alice Springs, then catch the Greyhound back to Darwin.

Following the briefest of Emergency Committee meetings, we decided to forfeit the show we had booked for Wednesday night so that we could at least get back in time for The Man in Black (a show about Johnny Cash) a week today. Soon we were booked up and, instead of the leisurely dinner and stroll we had planned, we were rushing about to cancel my hair appointment, to postpone our stay at our new accommodation from tomorrow night (still a backpacker place, but hopefully quieter than the YHA), to separate out anything we need for the tour, and to pack the rest ready for putting in storage with the travel agent.

As we walked through the centre of town, we saw a young man in tropical mess kit. Alan’s eagle eyes spotted the horse and thunderbolt cap badge and soon REME and RAEME were deep in conversation. The young Royal Australian Electrical and Mechanical Engineer was tremendously proud of his corps, as Alan had been during his 35 years in the service in the British equivalent. It seems that the two corps are not a world apart, despite their geography – the young man was just getting home from a party in the mess the night before. It was now around midday and he was making his way home through the shoppers and tourists. Sound familiar to anyone out there?

Later we found time to visit the Festival Gardens, which were decked out with pretty lanterns in all sorts of shapes, about the only obvious sign that there is a major festival going on across the whole city.

16^th Aug – This morning was spent moving our luggage into storage, shopping for snacks, having brunch, then catching the midday bus. The daylight hours were spent mostly reading, as the landscape can become tedious after the thousands of miles we have travelled through it in the past three months. During the night we hit and killed three skippies, which brought home the message to travellers not to drive at night if at all possible. Kangaroos and wallabies will always lose out to a big bus, but with a small car the odds change dramatically. The long hours of darkness were interspersed with a couple of refreshment stops and several mail stops – the Greyhound bus also serves as postman and freight delivery service. It was strange to halt at the end of a track in the middle of nowhere, where a 4WD containing Audrey (“Hello, Audrey, how’re ya goin’?” “Good, Larry, see ya next time.”) accepted a bundle of mail.

17^th Aug – As dawn broke, we arrived at the roadhouse in Aileron, a remote and very small community. It was therefore surprising to see two really tall statues, one of an Aboriginal man (17 metres tall) on the hill behind the roadhouse, another of a woman and child (just a little smaller, I think) nearby. We arrived in Alice Springs around 9am, too early to check into our hostel accommodation, so we just deposited our luggage there and took off to see the town.

Far from the image conjured up by Neville Shute’s famous novel, ‘Alice’ is now a sprawling but low-rise town with wide roads and good connections north and south. The Todd River, which flows through in the wet season, is just a wide ribbon of sand during the current dry season. With time to kill, we set off to explore, shocked by how much cooler it is here than in Darwin when the sun disappears for the night or behind a cloud – but then again, we are 1,500 kilometres further south. We wandered along the dry river bed, then across to a botanic garden where a track up the hill led us to views over the town. In the garden, one of the signs informed me that those Afghan cameleers have now been spreading date palm. Kapok, cabbage trees, dates...what next? If anyone can, the Afghan can. It seems.

At 2pm we were finally able to check into our room, which turned out to be a 6-bed dorm. I did realise when we booked that there was a chance of this happening, but I thought we might get lucky and be put in a room with just the two of us. No such luck. We were in a full, mixed dorm, my worst nightmare. When I was younger this would not have bothered me. With clear sinuses and taut adenoids, I could trust my body to avoid any sudden turbulence in the night. Having suffered the ravages of time and past smoking (don’t do it!) this is no longer the case. Sometimes I waken myself with a snort worthy of any Gloucestershire Old Spot. On a bad night, it must sound like the Gadarene swine as they jumped off the cliff. Anyway, there is no point getting older if you don’t get smarter, so I had my trusty little sticky plaster thingies with me, which are applied to the bridge of the nose and help keep the airways open. I think/hope they worked.

18^th Aug – At early o’clock we crept (I half-fell, being in the top bunk) out of bed, trying not to disturb the others in the room. In these hostels you have to strip your bed and take the sheets to reception when you check out, so 5am found us stumbling about in the dark carrying armloads of sheets and sleeping bags and kit to the TV room so that we could pack without waking four other people.

At 6am a young lady called Sarah turned up to collect 20 of us in one of those tatty hippy buses that are always used for backpackers. We should have realised that the clue was in the title when we booked, but little did we know that The Rock Tour applied not only to our intended destination, but also to the music that was played loud and long for the whole time we were travelling along. Although we were definitely the only ‘older’ people on the bus, we were not the only ones who found this a bit hard to bear. (My enduring memory of my first sight of Uluru will be that it was accompanied by a loud rap song that was making my head throb.)

Our itinerary for the next three days was imparted by Sarah with loads of “awesome” and soprano squeaks and squawks, and adjectives with the prefix, ‘super’, so that things became “super-cool”, or “super-interesting”. When the adjectives were to do with impressive statistics, they became “crazy-high” or “crazy-deep”. All of this whilst driving our little bus crazy-fast and bouncing up and down to the crazy-loud music. Anyway, our itinerary had been changed all around because some couple had flown into Uluru Airport instead of Alice Springs, so we had our last-day camel ride about an hour out of Alice Springs. Alan and I were two of only six or seven of our little gang who participated, feeling an obligation to contribute to the team-building phase and to the upkeep of the racing camels we were to ride. These were apparently Australia’s fastest camels, frequently taking the prizes at races. Our cameleer had trouble getting ours even to stand up.

Much further down the road (it is over 500 kilometres from Alice to Uluru) there was a frisson of excitement through the bus as someone pointed out The Rock in the distance. Sarah pulled over at a viewing point and said, “Here it is, then...we like to call this ‘Fooluru’ or Mount Connor”. Yup, it was not Uluru, which we should have guessed, as we were looking at a table-top mountain, formed from a hard layer on top of soft layers of sedimentary rock, whereas the real thing is a rounded shape, a monolith that actually extends around five kilometres below ground as well as 398 metres above. So we all went back to sleep until we were rudely awakened by Sarah urging us off the bus to collect firewood for tonight’s campfire.

Soon we saw the distinctive shape of Uluru and the nearby rounded shapes of Kata Tjuta. Having picked up the lovely-but-organisationally-challenged Patrick and Katherine from the airport, we had a short time to introduce ourselves and to write our names on the windows beside our seats. Most of our young co-travellers were from Germany, but we also had Korean, Taiwanese, Italian, Dutch and French. Our baptism of fire happened quickly with a stiff climb up to the Valley of the Winds at Kata Tjuta, another sacred site for the Aborigines. Some bits being less sacred than others, it appeared to be in order to have a ‘jumping photo’ taken at the top. Alan refused to jump, not having jumped since 1972 or something like that. The rock we were walking on once again looked man-made, as if created from cement embedded with stones.

After our walk, we travelled back to a viewing point near Uluru in time to watch it change colours during the sunset. It was indeed an impressive sight, but of course it was shared with hundreds of other tourists. In keeping with the general atmosphere, we indulged in a couple of beers and even took some photos that were probably not strictly PC, for example, one suggesting that the giantess, Caro, was picking a big can of beer off the top of the mountain. Then we had dinner before heading to our campsite for the night. There we lit a big campfire, had a chinwag and retired to our ‘swags’, which are like big canvas body bags with a thin mattress rolled inside. The stars were beautiful, but it was so cold I hardly slept a wink. The ever-adaptable Alan did sleep, but not much more than I did. Some of the blame for this must go to Rio, an otherwise nice lad from Korea who decided to hold a loud and very giggly phone conversation at midnight with someone who also spoke Korean, speaking at a volume more appropriate to a sound-proof booth than to a swag. This incident, lasting over half an hour, added more fuel to the fire of hatred Alan bears for mobile phones!

19^th Aug – Yet again an early start and back at Uluru for sunrise and breakfast. Unfortunately it was quite cloudy and very cold, with most of us walking about wrapped in our sleeping bags. Then we drove to the foot of the mountain and saw another side of Sarah. Despite her typically Aussie abuse of the English language and feigned carefree attitude, this young lady was very passionate about the countryside and about Aboriginal culture. Uluru is a place of particular importance to the Aboriginal people and, in recent years, the Australian government has tried to undo some of the abuses inflicted upon it by white folk, such as using highly sacred parts of the rock as the backdrop to advertising photographs. In a conflict of messages, people are still allowed to climb the mountain, but signs warn against this, not just for safety reasons, but also out of respect for the Aborigines. Even their own men are not allowed to climb. Sarah pleaded with us not to climb and all but two of us decided that perhaps it was better to show some respect rather than go for the big tick in the box from climbing the mountain. It is highly likely that in a very few years it will no longer be permitted. So it was with some reluctance that Alan and I agreed to take the soft option (never our first choice) and do the 7.4-kilometre base walk with most of the others. This allowed us to see up close the many scars in the rock where erosion has opened up great wounds, some of them like gashes in an animal carcase, showing ribs and internal organs. The surface is strangely uniform and Alan observed that it looked like the surface of an old metal water tank, with layers of rust peeling off to reveal the original colour below. The red of Australia is indeed rust – some of the sandstone is sparkly white underneath, with a layer of red iron oxide on top.

We saw many cave drawings, some of which were the remnants of a long-abandoned school where children would have been taught their ‘children’s stories’. These fantasy stories serve as both morality tales and to impart information. Having passed through initiation into man- or womanhood (which can happen at any age – someone who will not learn the ‘dreamtime stories’ or behave correctly can remain a child forever, knowing only the children’s stories), they will then learn about ‘men’s business’ and ‘women’s business’. The former is mostly to do with hunting and other ‘male’ activities, whereas the women learn about the ‘gathering’ side of things, such as bush tucker and medicine. Some of the sections (one just a few metres long, another about a kilometre long) of Uluru are sacred men’s sites, others are sacred women’s sites. The men of the tribe are not allowed to look at the women’s sites and vice versa, the sexes taking massive detours if necessary to avoid seeing anything they should not.

After our walk and some lunch in the shadow of Uluru, it was time to cover some of the distance back home. Sarah had said at the beginning of the trip that, if we wanted, she would take us hunting for witchetty grubs. There was only one condition – we had to eat one if we found it. Alan had gone around the campfire last night stirring up support for a witchetty grub hunt and had managed somehow to talk the lovely little Annika into agreeing to take part if he did. In keeping with the spirit of our travels, anything Alan does, I do, and vice versa. So of course I had to agree to join in. When I found myself by the side of the road using a stick to dig into the red sand beneath a witchetty bush, the dust sticking in my sweat, that was when I decided to put my husband up for sale. So, if you own the sun, the moon, and the earth as well as the Milky Way, we can start negotiations.

Our hunt was fruitless. These grubs, the larvae of a moth, develop inside the roots of the witchetty bush. You have to dig down close to the tree trunk until you find a good-sized root, then start extracting the dirt along its length, looking for a tell-tale swelling that reveals the presence of the grub. Alan had to settle for a jelly snake later and I was much relieved. One more stop for firewood and we were at our campsite for the night. We needed lots of wood this time, as Sarah informed us we would be cooking on the fire tonight. The team formed a chain to help unload the wood and place it in a heap. Later, when some glowing embers had built up at the base of the fire, Sarah’s right-hand-man, Sylvan, shovelled out several heaps on the edge to carry the pots and we all helped with preparing and cooking the food. The heat was so intense, that we had to form ‘stirring teams’ of two, one to hold the torch and one to stir. A couple would perform these duties for as long as they could bear the heat, then the next couple would take over and so on. The resulting meal of chilli, roasted potatoes and carrots, rice and mixed vegetables was very good indeed and the cooking was great fun.

Once more we slept in swags and this time the stars got little attention from me before sleep prevailed. At some time during the night, Hat went off on one of his adventures. He was not on the seat of the bus next day, where Alan clearly remembered having left him. After a frantic search, eventually he showed up in the depths of my bag, looking hung over and a bit sheepish. (I forgot to mention – we have heard from one of the friends Hat made when he went off on his really big adventure in Vietnam. Anders, from Sweden, may be coming to England to study and we hope to see him later this year.)

20^th Aug – This was our earliest start yet, 5am, to watch sunrise at King’s Canyon. The early start and the steep climb to the top proved a small price to pay in order to see such a lovely sight. As the sun rose, the rock glowed red and the day grew warmer. By now, our final day, the team was really starting to bond and we had fun taking photos of each other. I think it was the little gang of three – Steffi, Caro and Annika – who talked Alan into doing a jumping photo. Well done, girls, I couldn’t achieve this!

Sarah, despite some childish traits such as extreme petulance and a readiness to single out members of the team for criticism behind their backs, was proving to be a very capable tour leader, managing to get us to places at just the right time to avoid the worst of the tourist crush. This was particularly good when we descended into a canyon to a swimming hole, which we had to ourselves as a group. It was still only about 7am when six of us jumped into the icy water. As usual it was Sylvan, who has been a strong and likable member of the team, Steffi, Caro and Annika who joined in. Oh, and me and Alan, of course. Deciding not to be so un-cool as to stand on the edge and hold my nose and close my eyes before I jumped in, I just took an enormous leap, clutching at my nose before hitting the water. The pool was icy cold, shielded from the sun probably for most of the day and most definitely at this early hour. Soon my skin was burning with the cold, but it was one of the best feelings ever! My happiness was complete when we were visited on the side by several cute little spinifex pigeons, which have crests, but are smaller and more colourful than the grey crested pigeons I have photographed before.

Later I said to Alan, “Did you see me jump? I didn’t hold my nose until I was nearly in the water!” “You are to be congratulated on your ability to find your nose in mid air”, he replied.

Back in Alice, most of us met up for dinner and a celebration at the pub. Alan was a ringleader as usual, negotiating discounts for bulk purchase of Jaegerbombs. As well as pulling some of my weird faces, (put into this situation by Alan, of course) at some point during the evening I agreed to take part in Henley-on-Todd Regatta tomorrow. This is an annual event held ‘on’ the river in the dry season. It has been cancelled only the once – due to rain!

21^st Aug – Here’s why older people and younger people should not share a dorm. Apparently while I was away having a shower this morning, Alan was just coming around when he heard the boy in the bunk bed behind him saying, “Hi, how’re ya goin’?”, to which he replied, “Fine, how are you?”. “Ah, I broke down last night in the car, mate” said the young man. “That must have been bad, what time did you get in?” asked Alan. He said, “I’m not gonna make the boat today, you carry on and fish without me.” At this stage it began to dawn on Alan that something was not quite right about this conversation and he caught the eye of the young lady in the bunk bed opposite. She pointed over Alan’s shoulder and it was only then that he realised he was having a one-sided conversation with a guy who was actually talking to a mate on his mobile phone. Alan now feels totally vindicated in his hatred of mobile phones.

In true Aussie style, the Henley-on-Todd Regatta pokes a little bit of fun at our own revered Henley-on-Thames event, complete with a Commodore in fancy dress who presents the prizes. The events themselves have little to do with water (except for the bucket of water that has to be thrown over the occupant of the bathtub in that particular race) and everything to do with people running through the dry sand of the river bed carrying makeshift vessels of all kinds and generally having a good laugh. The day dawned really hot, with no danger of cancellation due to rain. Floats went through the town first, the rivalry between the Vikings and the Buccaneers clear to see. The Australian Navy took part, too, with its float like a small destroyer. In the arena, the strange events included surf life saving, sand shovelling, skiing, rowing fours and eights, and yachts of different classes. All expertly overseen and commentated on by several blokes from the deck of the ‘Pistill Dawn’. I was due to take part in The Backpackers’ Challenge Race, but when we assembled at the start, it was clear that there would be one too many people in our boat. I suggested we find a cardboard box or similar and attach it to the rear of the main vessel as a tender that would carry the additional person, but time was too short to find the necessary gear and I reluctantly withdrew to allow the younger generation to slog it out.

After the race it took me two hours to find Alan, thanks to a misunderstanding about the reunification plan! Thankfully we were together again in time to watch the final battle between the Vikings, the Buccaneers and the Navy. The Captain of the Buccaneers proposed to his dainty girlfriend just before the start of the grand finale and drew lots of “aahhhhs” from the crowd. I’m sure that won’t be his mates’ reaction later – this is the land down under, after all. The three floats were kitted out with water cannons, flour-bombing cannons and balloons full of water for close-quarter battle. The flour bombs were in fact full of a fine grit-like substance that blew over the crowd, coating us all. This was not ideal for us, as we were due to sit amongst other folks on a bus for 22 hours!

We got on the bus at 7.30pm. Once again we made various stops as we travelled up through the middle of Australia in the dark.

22^nd Aug - It was lovely that some of the places we had seen only dimly in the night during our outward journey were now revealed in their full glory (or not) as the sun came up. At our Dunmara stop we saw an enormous road train carrying armoured personnel carriers for the army. Mind you, many of the sights were wasted on me. Exhaustion had taken over and I slept for much of the journey. We arrived in Darwin at 5pm with just enough time to move to new accommodation, grab a shower and change, then go to the Garden Amphitheatre to see The Man in Black. The show was fine, but perhaps a bit wasted on two weary travellers. And I did not collapse in my usual gales of laughter when the performer (Tex Perkins) sang ‘Ring of Fire’. Indeed, I had a bad case of leaky eyes. I had not realised, you see, that this song was written by Johnnie Cash’s wife, June Carter, who later died following heart surgery. The last time Johnnie ever performed in public was to sing this song at her memorial service. Fourteen weeks later, he himself was dead.

23^rd Aug – Today was one of our admin days and we managed to get through prodigious amounts of washing as a team. In amongst all this activity, I finally had my hair done. No photos yet, but no doubt they will follow. We had been issued with tickets for a cheap backpacker meal at a city centre pub, so we made use of these before stumbling ‘home’ to have one of the best nights’ sleep in ages.

24^th Aug – We had intended to go on a sightseeing tour this morning, followed by feeding of some exceptionally tame barramundi and trevally later on, but we opted for a gentle start. For me this was a nice little trot along the esplanade and for Alan, peace and quiet to read.  One good thing we achieved was to make a date to see Reg (from the Coomalie Airfield event) on Thursday just before we start our marathon journey to France. I will be doing one more blog before I draw a line under what has been an amazing ten months. Our next two months will be spent with friends and family, and I want to enjoy their company to the full, and to reassure them that their private lives will not be published on the internet for all to see! I don’t know if I will get to publish the last blog before arriving in France. We leave Darwin on the evening of Thursday 26^th August and will arrive in Marseille on the morning of Saturday 28^th August. During that time we will be out of touch, but will try to check emails in Singapore on 27^th August all being well. Alan’s final blog will follow soon, too.

Photos

15th Aug - We were walking along the street today thinking how much we were missing the outback already, when we saw a sign about trips down the centre to Alice Springs and Uluru (Ayers Rock). Less than an hour later we have changed our plans completely and hopefully in two days' time we will be sleeping under the stars in a 'swag'.

Needless to say, no blogging for a while, but we will be back in Darwin on 22nd all being well, with just enough time to grab our bags from storage, check into our new accommodation and have a shower before going to see The Man in Black, which we had already booked before this change of plan. Sadly we will miss a comedy play on Wednesday, but I am currently trying to flog the tickets half price here at the YHA!

Laters, peeps.

10^th Aug – Alan bought a paper yesterday and discovered a headline that said Wangi Falls, where we were swimming yesterday, had just been opened following a crocodile scare. A big croc had been caught in one of the permanent traps set near the falls, the third in as many weeks. Hmmm...

Last night we were entertained by the residents of a nearby termite mound. We watched them coming and going with pieces of leaf, but as soon as I got close with the camera they seemed to sense it and dodge into one of the many rooms in their small palace. You can just about make out a couple on the photograph – they are just off-centre, heading towards four o’clock.

A long-haired eejit woke me up by putting his campervan lights on at about 5am this morning, when the sky was still pitch dark. He then sat outside and coughed in a very irritating fashion. That’s when he wasn’t murmuring to his wife. I looked out of the window at one stage and she was inside, apparently flapping at insects with a feather duster. It was all a bit surreal. Then they put on the brightest outdoor light I have ever seen on a campervan –  a bank of halogen bulbs and it was shining straight at our van, not 15 feet away. My feet hit the floor and I was dressed within seconds. I opened the door and stepped down just long enough to say, “Could you put that light off, please, it really is terribly annoying”. Then I stepped back up into the van, got undressed and climbed back into bed. The whole thing probably took no longer than a minute, but at least he said sorry as he reached for the switch, which was something. My ultra-polite words I can only put down to the good influence of my current reading material, Joyce Grenfell’s autobiography, with its language from a much more genteel era. The style of delivery owed more to The League of Gentlemen (?), where the guy comes out of his shed and says in a broad accent, “This week I shall mostly be [eating yoghurt - each episode, a different activity]”, before disappearing back inside. The most astounding fact in this episode? Alan slept through the lot!

When it was proper morning we got up and headed to the Tjaetaba Falls, accessed via the most charming little path that winds along, following the route of a crystal clear creek. Thanks to this water, we could enjoy on our right the cool, green monsoon forest. On our left was higher ground, home to the more typical bush landscape, which I find a little barren with its scrubby trees and hot sand. As we got closer to the falls, I could hear kids’ voices yelling and almost gave way to extreme grumpiness, which, if you have been following this blog, you will know is not like me at all. He-hem!

By the time we reached the falls I had adjusted my attitude by reflecting that children should be in the outdoors having fun. And having fun they were. Only the upper level of the waterfall is accessible as everything downstream is sacred to the Aboriginals. At the top of the waterfall there was a shallow fall into a deep plunge pool. As we arrived, the two boys were egging on their mum to jump into the pool, which she did from the low edge. The boys, totally fearless, were jumping in from the waterfall, striking all sorts of poses as they fell to the water. We said our hellos and Alan and I positioned ourselves on the sunny rocks nearby. Alan told me to go and jump in and he would take a photograph. I made to go to the low edge and he said, “No, I want you to jump in from the waterfall”. I don’t know why I have to accept his challenges, but I do. So I went to the waterfall, very conscious that the little family was now watching me. I laughed nervously and said, “You have no idea how scary this is”. The mum said, “Come on, we’ll help you”. With that her and the dad and the two boys and Alan started a “three, two, one” countdown. Well, there’s no choice but to jump, is there? I think the photo will show that my eyes were firmly shut and my nose was held in a vice-like grip between thumb and finger. No style marks there, then.

We ended up having a great time watching the kids doing their acrobatic jumps. I got a photograph of Alan jumping in (eyes open, nose not held), then we asked the mum to take a photograph of both of us jumping in, me with eyes and nose still closed. This time my feet actually touched bottom. I said this when I came back to the surface and Alan said, “That’s because I was leaning on your head”, which everyone else thought was hilarious. This was a lovely, brief little interlude and once again I was reminded that, if you open your mind, you open yourself to many wonderful opportunities in life.

Litchfield, as I said before, is renowned for its lovely falls and swimming holes. We visited two more today – the Tolmer Falls, which is a very high waterfall with a distinctive arch at the top. Florence Falls is a lovely double waterfall where it is also possible to swim. By this time, however, our accumulated tiredness was catching up on us and we retraced our steps to the lovely park at Batchelor, where we had almost stayed on the first night in this area. Quick pose for photo in my new t-shirt and a snap of a particular type of pandanus palm, which has a corkscrew effect on its trunk left by the leaves when they die back. As we were outside doing our photography session, John and Chris turned up. This was the couple who had told us about Richard and how to get close to the DC3. It was so lovely to see them again and they invited us over for drinks and a chat. We didn’t need to tell them about our visit to Coomalie, as Richard had got to them first! And so we ended our visit to Batchelor and district as we began it – with kindness and hospitality.

11^th Aug – This morning we moved back up the Stuart Highway towards Darwin, then turned left to visit Berry Springs Nature Park. This is laid out over a vast area and provides an opportunity for walking as well as seeing lots of ‘Top End’ flora and fauna. Our first stop was the ‘flight deck’ where we saw several birds up close, including a scruffy-looking black-breasted buzzard that used a stone to crack open a fake emu egg, just as it would do in nature with the real thing. We were entertained by the sulphur-crested cockatoo, that flew straight to the little cups used to feed the small birds and started knocking them back like a thirsty man draining his first pint. I managed to catch the splash of an osprey diving into the pond to retrieve a fish and it could have been a great shot if a stupid log hadn’t been in the way – I think I might just have caught the bird entering the water otherwise. As if to make up for it, he came and sat on a branch very close to us where he first held up his wings to get dry, then ate his fish. There was also a wedge-tailed eagle that was a serving member of the Australian army, being a regimental mascot. He was steadily working his way up through the ranks once more following a set-back when he was busted to private for biting the Colonel’s wife.

The different areas were so well done, complete with walkways that started at tree top height, allowing us a rare close look at the canopy dwellers. Then we were able to make our way down through the different levels and look at the plants and creatures in each of these. Monsoon forest had been recreated, as well as wetlands, billabongs and so on, each inhabited by the plants and animals you would expect to see in these areas in nature. [Trudy – I was pleased with the outcome of the photo I took of a water lily using the digital zoom. The lovely grainy feel made me think of Monet’s garden. I’m looking forward to seeing your photos of this garden.]

We were entranced by the efforts of the ants that were gradually moving the body parts of a dead grasshopper towards their nest. They had managed to remove one back leg and a team was ant-handling this across the ground. Then another team was trying to remove a front leg, making it waggle about as if the poor dead creature was still struggling. I was amazed at the cheek of a turtle in the aquarium, which was pushing at the nose of a small freshwater crocodile to get it to move. Even more amazing – the croc actually moved! These were feisty turtles and I saw several of them taking bites at each other. It was like watching aquatic dogfights.

It was quite a long visit, so we put off our visit to the Berry Springs swimming hole until tomorrow.

12^th Aug – The glorious twelfth! We drove out to Mandorah, a headland across the bay from Darwin. On the way we were able to see some controlled burning at close hand. We stopped and switched the engine off to hear the crackle as clumps of long grass flared up. It was surprising how quickly the flames died down once again. Although burning leaves the forest floor and lower parts of trees blackened, it is surprising how quickly the undergrowth comes back. Leading the pack are the bright green fronds of the cycads, which I believe are the same as the tree ferns we can buy at exorbitant prices in garden centres back home.

At Mandorah’s jetty, where a regular ferry arrives from and departs for the city, we could see the tall buildings and shiny facades that we will be walking amongst in a couple of days’ time when we hand the campervan back. It seems a long time since we have been in a reasonably-sized town, never mind a city. Back along the road, we could see where the fire had been burning when we went past the first time and it was now just smouldering gently.

Berry Springs was pretty, but a little bit ‘developed’ for our liking and the water was warm, which I am not too keen on. Somehow it feels unhealthy, especially with lots of other people swimming in it! I just prefer cold, refreshing water when I go for a swim. But it was a pretty place and lots of folks were thoroughly enjoying it, especially the young lads who were jumping in from a tree stump and doing the usual antics.

We decided to harbour up at a very nice caravan site just south of Darwin for our last two nights. This will enable us to give the van a good clean up before we hand it back. Also to have a long goodbye with Wobbly. The park attendant put us in a lovely little spot in the corner of the campsite, with shade overhead and a barbecue right beside us. It should be the perfect location for all our needs.

Being conveniently placed for the barbecue and the bins, we had a lot of people walking past and made some new temporary friends. These were a couple from Belfast and a couple from Yorkshire who now live in Adelaide, but were travelling together in the Northern Territories to get away from the cold down south. George was just a couple of years older than me and had been in 74 Engineers, the TA unit that I had trained with many times during my stint as Cadet Troop Commander of the Royal Engineers Troop of Queen’s OTC (the first female to hold that post, I dare to add!). We had a good old chinwag, but neither of our memories was good enough to identify anyone we both knew – a rarity when two Irish people get together. Alan and I joined the fourball for a glass of wine after dinner and we had a really lively chat about all sorts of things, finding lots in common, including the opinion that the IGA grocery store in Katherine was the smelliest shop we had ever been in due to the body odour of the customers.

13^th Aug – Cleaning day! We emptied all our personal belongings out of the van and on to the conveniently-placed picnic table before starting the big clean-up prior to handing Wobbly back tomorrow. Alan tackled the outside while I did inside. It took about four hours and never before in the history of mankind has a campervan been so clean on handing back. Must be the army ‘march-out’ thing that can’t be shaken off. The morning’s highlight was when Alan found a little frog inside the electricity supply box.

We went to the local shop to buy steaks to cook on the barbecue for supper, wanting it to be special for our last evening with Wobbly. The bottle shops (off-licences) here really tickle me with their names: ‘The Thirsty Camel’; ‘Cellarbrations’; and ‘Bottle-O’. Some of these are drive-through affairs, where you pull up in your car at the open-fronted shop and a member of staff brings your order and loads it into your car before taking money, bringing change – you don’t even have to step out of your car. No wonder so many of the men here are sporting very large beer bellies! Unlike back home, there is still very active marketing of alcohol and these drive-throughs have tempting glass-fronted cabinets full of crushed ice studded with cans and bottles of beer that can be bought singly. For someone trying to give it up or to reduce their drinking, this must be a terrible temptation. Our tipple was a bit special this evening. We had bought a cheap bottle of fizz with the ‘grey nomads’ brand. People tell us that many, many goods and services are aimed at this older, mobile population in Australia. It certainly seems that most of the elderly here are in Jayco Expandas – caravans, not support stockings!

After dinner we had a rare treat. There was a scuffling in a nearby tree and down popped a little possum. It ran across the grass, behind my chair and under the van. Finding nothing of interest under there, it retreated up the tree. I remembered that I had an apple and went indoors to retrieve this and a knife – oh, and my camera, of course. I cut the apple in pieces and threw these on the grass between us and the tree. Our little possum friend had no hesitation in coming down again. He grabbed a piece of apple and retired to a low branch to eat it. We sat quietly and listened to the little ‘sharf, sharf, sharf’ sound of him eating. Down he came again and the whole process was repeated. Several times he came back, each time getting closer to get at the apple near us. I couldn’t see anything in the screen of my camera, it was so dark, so I just kept shooting away, amazed that Mr P didn’t seem at all bothered by the flash. Some of the resulting photos were of empty patches of grass, or of a bare branch, but others caught this lovely little creature perfectly. When he reviewed the photographs on the computer later, Alan asked if I should delete some of the possum photos – he didn’t realise I had already deleted twice as many as I kept!

14^th Aug – This morning we did some final cleaning jobs before setting off for the centre of Darwin. We had some time to kill, so we had lunch, observing that this was the first time since Perth that we had gone out for a  meal together (not counting our meal with Richard and Terry in Batchelor). We haven’t missed the whole eating out thing, mostly because we have been sitting out under the stars to eat, which is just so pleasant, plus I really enjoyed cooking in the campervan. After lunch, in a fruitless attempt to walk off these large portions they serve here, we walked along the esplanade. [Colin and Mari’s babies – I spotted a metal toilet and just had to open the door and take a photograph. It was a great disappointment, though. No music, no tipping toilet with the magic brush that came out to clean it – I can’t believe they removed that one from the carpark in Stornoway!]

When we went to the YHA to check if our room for the next two nights was ready, I was pleasantly surprised to see once more a young girl with blond hair in a very stylish bob. I had seen her walking past as we were having lunch and admired the cut, wishing I could find her hairdresser to try and work some magic on my increasingly unruly mess. Finding her sitting there on the internet as we walked into the YHA was just too good an opportunity to miss and I overcame my usual reticence (I’m getting better at this!) to speak to her. I was glad I did, as she was able to tell me that she did have it cut in Darwin and gave me directions to the salon. Later I went there and I have made an appointment for Monday. Look out for the new me! If you don’t see any more photos of me for the remaining life of this blog, you will know it all went horribly wrong.

Once again we have been very fortunate with our timing and we find ourselves in Darwin for its big festival, covering all forms of the arts. Today I booked us in to see ‘The Man in Black’, a show about the life and music of Johnny Cash, which Alan wants to see. I just hope I can stop myself from being overcome by uncontrollable giggles when the performer sings (as he is bound to) ‘Ring of Fire’. This song just has such daft words that it sends me into fits of laughter, and now I will always associate it with lying sleepless in a wooden bungalow on Koh Tao as the beach disco played the record for the second time each morning at around 4am before it closed.

The other thing we have booked is a performance called ‘The Cook, The Queen and The Kelly’, which apparently takes a comical look at history. I expect to enjoy this – there’s a group back home that does the complete works of Shakespeare, or something close to it, in the course of a hilarious evening. We saw them once at The Stables, that wonderful venue created by Johnnie Dankworth and Cleo Laine, the former now deceased and will be sadly missed.

It is strange to be here in our bare little room in the YHA listening to young folks sitting on the stairs outside chatting. We will be here for a couple of nights, then we are moving down the road a bit to somewhere that seems to be a little nicer and set in pretty grounds.

Photos

7^th Aug – In my last blog I made a start to this day, writing about Alan trying to jump out of the bushes at me. I thought that this was probably the most exciting thing that would happen to me today. Little did I know that, by the end of it, I would feel like I had fallen down a rabbit hole, passed through a looking glass, or exited the back of a wardrobe, and entered into a world that few people have the privilege to see. But I get ahead of myself!

When Alan had finished playing cowboys and Indians in the bushes, we loaded up and set off west and a bit south towards our next destination, Litchfield National Park. We have read about waterfalls and swimming pools, and this will be a welcome relief from the arid rock and bush landscape with croc-infested billabongs that have formed most of Kakadu. I was navigating, so place names became more important in planning the route than hard facts like how much diesel we have left, or which direction we are supposed to be going. So our refuelling location was Humpty Doo, a great name for a town, I thought. We hit the Stuart Highway just 70 kilometres south of Darwin, but turned southwards towards Batchelor, a small town on the edge of Litchfield National Park.

On checking into the caravan park in Batchelor we were given two tokens for welcome drinks in the bar at five, then we could go and watch the evening feeding of the wildbirds if we wished. When imparting this piece of information the lady on reception noted, somewhat defensively, that the morning and evening feeding has been part of the park’s history for 25 years. This is because all the public parks contain warnings not to feed the wild birds or animals.

Anyway, we settled in, then went for our welcome drink and met some other folks (where do you come from, where are you travelling to, this drink’s a bit sweet for me...) before going to watch the birds being fed. There was a definite flow to the proceedings. The man doing the feeding started well away from the main area, allowing the brown honey eaters to have first go. Later, when the multi-coloured lorikeets and the noisy, comical galahs got in on the act, it was clear why he did this – the poor honey eaters might have starved otherwise. We thought it charming, then returned to the campervan where Alan started reading up on walks to do tomorrow and I started cooking mince for a chilli.

Suddenly I heard a familiar throbbing of engines approaching in the sky. I threw down the stirring spoon, grabbed my camera from where it was charging, and raced outside. There it was in all its glory against the evening sky - a beautiful DC3 (Dakota). I got a couple of shots in before it disappeared over the trees. A man who had just got out of a small truck came over and asked if I was interested in aircraft. I explained that I was, but that it was mainly for the benefit of my brothers, nieces and nephews who share this interest back home and in Canada. The man, who introduced himself as John and his wife as Chris, said that the DC3 was flying into Coomalie airfield, an old WWII aerodrome whose memories were being kept alive through the devotion of a man called Richard Luxton. John is a geologist who carries out exploratory drilling for everything from water to minerals. He and Chris had been invited to go down to the airfield that night (Richard is a friend), but they had just finished an arduous 12-hour day and would not be going. He went on to suggest that we should get on down there and introduce ourselves to Richard, saying that we were coming along in their stead. My first thought was that I was just starting to cook dinner...the mince! I rushed indoors and just rescued it. When John left, saying we really should just go and see the DC3, Alan and I had a 20-second deep and meaningful followed by another 20 seconds of frantic activity, at the end of which the saucepan of mince was abandoned with our two chairs on the piece of hard standing that was ours for the night and we were off down the road, following John’s instructions for getting to the airfield.

Coomalie airfield was about 15 kilometres away – the longest 15 kilometres in memory when you are racing the sunset with the possibility of a close look at a DC3 at the end of it. We had no idea what we were getting into and it was not until next day that we really even began to understand. A small handwritten sign, not visible from the main road, welcomed people to Coomalie Airfield. We drove for about a further kilometre down a rough track, the sun getting low in the sky by this time. Soon we found cars parked by the sides of the track and there in front of us was the runway with the DC3 parked up on the grass at the end of it. Close by were camper vans and tents. Down one side of the runway we could see other aircraft – a Tiger Moth! A Harvard! Part of a Storch! And numerous little ‘ultralights’ and light aircraft. A Model T Ford chugged past with laughing, squealing kids and adults spilling out the back.

We parked up Wobbly and walked in the direction of a small crowd of people numbering between 50 and 100 who were assembling around an improvised stage. As we walked towards them, a bright yellow aircraft, with one of the most aggressive engines I have ever heard, took off into the reddening sky and I managed to get a very blurred snap of it in my panic to switch on the camera and get it on the right setting. Then I noticed a man with an important-looking camera edging himself into position where grass became the end of the runway and I realised that he knew something was about to happen. So I stood near him, camera at the ready. The fading light required a slower shutter speed, so what happened next is not flattered by the shot I took. This aircraft came screaming back at us, just clearing the trees short of the airfield. This was amazing. Absolutely the lowest height I have ever seen an aircraft flown at speed – you could hear an alarm going off in the cockpit, even above the roar of the engine. And even more incredible was the fact that, had you been very stupid indeed, you could have strolled into his path and had your head removed without even a fluorescent plastic tape to restrict your access to the danger zone.

I asked the man with the camera what sort of aircraft it was and he informed me that it was a crop duster, but what make or model I do not know. He was very friendly and introduced himself as Peter, so I asked where I could find Richard Luxton. His friendliness was not just a flash in the pan, as he then took great pains to find Richard, to whom he introduced me, even remembering my name, an art that few of us practise enough. Richard had an unruly mop of grey curls, warm brown eyes and sported a green t-shirt with ‘Fenton’s Flying Freighters’ on the front. (Later I discovered this was a reference to the amazing Clyde Fenton, the original flying doctor, who had commanded a squadron of Ansons here during the war.) I explained about seeing the DC3 and meeting John and asked if this was an airshow and, if so, was there any chance of an experience flight in the DC3. Richard replied that it was just a little get-together for family, friends and anyone who was interested in aircraft. Although it was getting too dark for another DC3 flight, it would probably do one flight in the morning for anyone interested in going up – all for the princely sum of $50 Australian (around £25). He added that we were more than welcome to stay for the evening, as the band was about to strike up. When he found out we were in the campervan, he said we should stop overnight.

Alan and I had one of our emergency planning meetings and quickly decided that we would never have this chance again, so we thanked Richard and said we would be back very soon. Alan is to be complimented for driving very ‘efficiently’ back to Batchelor, where we stopped at the town tavern (the only place with an ATM) to draw some money, raced back to the campsite, packed away our chairs and electrical cable and retrieved the saucepan of mince, which, still warm, had to sit lodged between my feet on the trip back to the airfield once more. In under an hour from deciding that we would stop overnight at the airfield, we were positioning our chairs amongst the other people gathering around the stage. We bought a steak sandwich from a food stall and settled down to enjoy some of the most enjoyable folk music we have heard in a long time. The musicians all had grey hair, a wealth of songs relating to flying, and a wonderful sense of humour.

As we sipped a glass of wine and I pinched myself to make sure this whole thing was real (is that really a Dakota over there...am I really sitting beside the airframe of an Anson that is to be rebuilt?) we got chatting to Reggie and Mike, who turned out to be so interesting I have urged them to write a book about their shared experiences. They got to know each other in New Guinea, where they competed against each other from an early age. It started with rally driving, where they were arch enemies, then flying, then water skiing...I’m sure the list went on, but at some stage during this lengthy rivalry, they became close friends, even pioneering together some sort of jump start in water skiing. They still have their own aircraft, but for one reason or another they didn’t bring these down to Coomalie from Darwin, where they both now live.

As the night went on, we moved across the runway to the other side where Richard had lit a bonfire. The musicians went ‘unplugged’ to sing some great fireside music, including really good blues numbers. Reggie and Mike were able to explain more about Coomalie and Richard. Apparently Richard has long harboured a passion for aircraft and for the many airfields in this area that were used in the Second World War. He bought the farm that included within its borders the two runways of Coomalie Airfield, plus the remains of the buildings that had been home to 87 Photo Reconnaissance Squadron and  31 Beaufighter Squadron during the war. I am a bit woolly on the details of all the aircraft and their uses, but a photo of the commemorative plaque for 87 Photo Reconnaissance Squadron lists the aircraft they used, including Mosquitoes later in the war. Ansons were used by Fenton’s photo recce lot, and it was these that got the nickname of Fenton’s Flying Freighters as they were used for general duties as well as reconnaissance. More can be read about Coomalie’s part in the war at http://www.ozatwar.com/airfields/coomalie.htm. I can’t vouch for how accurate it is, but Richard does not have a website – he spurns technology unless it flies! Also, the airfield can be found on Google Earth by searching for Batchelor, Northern Territories, then scrolling east.

The farm has been secondary to Richard’s efforts after buying it in 1974. Since then he has recovered numerous aircraft parts from around the site as well as further afield. He has explored the vast area where the hutted and tented camps existed and has built a church of his own, award-winning design on the site of the original. He has rescued an original Sidney Williams building from Darwin and built it close to the end of the runway, intending it to be a museum one day. Add to this a job in lecturing about construction, plus taking on mine owners and property lawyers, and you will get some idea of the energy of this man. It seems that he also has some cattle on the farm, but he doesn’t do a lot with it at the moment.

The evening went past in a blur of euphoria that had little to do with the red wine and everything to do with the bright stars, the sight of several iconic aircraft reflecting the flames of the bonfire, the great music and the stimulating conversation. This was the perfect antidote to the predictable, brief and shallow chats that we’ve been having with our camping and caravanning neighbours since leaving Exmouth. When we decided we were off to bed, Mike and Reggie kindly invited us to breakfast with them in the morning.

8^th Aug – When I woke up, for one terrible moment, I thought that maybe I had dreamt the whole thing about yesterday evening. Then I pulled back the curtain, and there was the Dakota shining in the early morning light. Despite our lateness to bed, we had no trouble making the early start and joined Reggie and Mike for some very good pikelets with butter and jam. The gloss was taken off things, however, when they pointed out that the DC3 was having suspension problems on the port side. On closer inspection, the aircraft was indeed sitting low on the left. Alan saw how disappointed I was and said that he would try to get me a flight in the Tiger Moth or the Harvard instead. The complication there is that the guy, Greg Hardy of Hardy Aviation, who flies left hand seat in the DC3, also flies the Tiger Moth. Nick (right hand seat DC3) is the pilot of the Harvard. So we decided to wait and see how things would pan out. As we had breakfast, another little aircraft (photos provided, make not identified) came crabbing towards the runway. Reggie and Mike looked up and said, “Oh, here comes Vince”. Apparently they can tell who it is, not just by the aircraft, but sometimes by the style of the flying.

After breakfast we went to find out what was happening. We discovered that Richard had set off to find a bottle of nitrogen so that the DC3 suspension could be pumped up. Time passed quickly as there was always something taking off or landing. We watched the Harvard do one flight, buzzing the airfield on his way back, and lots of the little ultralights were taking people for flights. Alan asked me if I wanted to go on one of these, but I declined as I had just seen Richard return with a nitrogen bottle. Just when things were looking up, they started going downhill once more. Although the DC3 would be fit to fly once it had the suspension fixed, it would not be doing any experience flights, but flying straight back to Darwin. I went off to make a cup of coffee for Reggie and us. When I returned, Alan made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He said that, if I wanted, I could catch a lift to Darwin in the DC3 and he would come and pick me up. Reggie had already colluded by saying he would lead Alan to his place, dump the campervan, then drive to the airport in his car to meet me.

Only time for a big hug before I rushed off to find Richard, who introduced me to Greg, the captain. Greg was very happy for me to come along. Then there was a call for people to push up on the wing to take some of the weight off and allow the hydraulics to pump up the suspension again. We were all underneath going push, push and the whole thing was bouncing up and down. It was obviously working, as we had to keep moving down the wing to the lower end as it rose out of our reach. Then I met Greg’s wife and their three little children, the two older of which had friends along. The whole gang had travelled down in the DC3 and camped out around it overnight. I helped load ‘eskies’ (cool boxes), mattresses and toys on board, then the amazing Richard appeared with the best suggestion of the day. He was going to come along for the flight as well and a friend of his, Terry Burke, would pick us all up in his car if Alan would like to come along, too. (Terry was researching an uncle of his, who died tragically in a Mosquito accident at Coomalie just two weeks before the end of the war. He met Richard at Coomalie six years ago and they have been friends ever since.)

Anyway, off I went, hoofing along as quickly as it is possible in flip-flops, towards the last place I had seen Alan. There he was, the poor dear, hauling two folding chairs, three coffee mugs and a water bottle back towards the campervan. I told him between gasps that he could come, too. Good man, he didn’t mess about. Pausing only to produce a Fenton’s Flying Freighters t-shirt from his shirt front as a present for me (is it any wonder I love him?), he went and stowed the stuff in Wobbly while I dashed off to find Reggie, who was throwing his gear into his campervan ready for the off. He was very understanding when I told him about the change of plan – hopefully we will see him when we get to Darwin.

Anyway, departure was imminent, so it wasn’t long before we were all on board and ready for the off.  Sierra, the cute toddler with the cheeky little smile, hates seatbelts, so she was toddling about until the last moment before take-off. It was just wonderful to see how at home she was, leaning into the steep slope of the floor and climbing up on the seats to play peek-a-boo! (She also took a shine to Alan and kept holding out her arms for him to carry her.)

I took a shot of the old Ford and the small group of faithful who had stayed to watch the Dakota leave. Then I suddenly realised that all of this would look better on video, so I spent the whole flight switching between this and stills. Hopefully by the time I upload this blog I will have worked out how to add video to the website. It may have to go on u-tube or something later. Anyway, after lifting off and doing a big lazy turn, Greg headed back to the airfield and soon it became clear what his intentions were. He was going to beat up the runway (runway 17 – there is also a 35). We roared through really low, much to the delight of those still watching as well as those on board. Then it was off across the mango plantations and the bush towards Darwin. There was quite a bit of controlled burning going on, so many of the photos are quite misty. I videoed the whole of the final approach and landing, and can be heard to remark on the soundtrack that it was a beautiful landing, as indeed it was. Then came the touching down of the tail wheel, which bumped along before settling behind us.

This was one occasion when you just had to be there. I cannot explain to anyone who does not share my passion for these aircraft just how amazing it is for me to have ridden in one, having watched them at airshows since childhood, and in old films where they were often the heroes. Alan was probably almost as thrilled as I was. This is an Iconic aircraft with a capital I!

Terry collected Richard, Alan and me from the offices of Hardy Aviation and we drove back down to Coomalie. When we arrived, we found one of Richard’s neighbours there on her lovely ‘Waler’ horse, so called because they originated in New South Wales. Apparently these horses were beloved of the British cavalry regiments due to their coolness under fire. When units using them left Egypt after the war, they were ordered to leave their horses behind. It is told that many of the men, with heavy heart, shot their mounts as a kindness rather than abandon them to the brutality of the people they knew would take them. We had some idea of how hard this must have been, watching Elaine’s horse, which she had just broken and brought out on its first ride. The creature just stood there beside there, nuzzling her from time to time with what looked like real devotion. Elaine is working hard to resurrect the breed and raise awareness of its sturdiness and reliability.

We tried to excuse ourselves, thinking that we had taken up enough of Richard’s time, especially as we were no better than gate-crashers at a private affair. No, he would not hear of it. We were loaded into the front of his ‘ute’ (utility vehicle) and driven up a bumpy track to see the rescued Sidney Williams building, the metal remains of a Mosquito that had become part of the milkwood tree growing above it (we now have one of the brass screws that were used in the wooden wings of the aircraft), the WWII cricket ground with termite mound fielders, and the beautiful, serene and simple little church that he had lovingly designed and built. There have been several RAAF memorial services there and Richard hopes the church will have its first wedding next year. He was also able to show us the sites of huts that used to stand there and that were home to the photo interpretation staff and so on.

On returning to the runway, we tried once more to excuse ourselves, but Richard and Terry, who was stopping over, insisted we join them for supper at the Batchelor Tavern. Overwhelmed by kindness, we ended up parking our van in Richard’s shady back yard in Batchelor while Terry made lunch and we all sat down and the conversation carried on from there. Richard does most of the talking, but he has a wealth of experiences and stories, including a stint as a volunteer advisor in East Timor. His memory for dates, names and places is enviable and he kept us thoroughly entertained. He then remembered he should have returned the nitrogen bottle, so he had to rush off and do that! This provided an opportunity to get to know Terry a little better, who is also a fascinating person. Maybe the secret is that everyone with a passion for something in life is interesting.

Later, showered and refreshed, we walked through the darkened streets to the Tavern and enjoyed an excellent, man-sized supper. The conversation just never stopped, even on the way home and for several hours after we got back to the house, pausing only for Richard to clobber a hated Cane Toad with a shovel and remove it to the bin. It was quite late when we went to bed, Richard having been on the go constantly for two days and probably for several days in the planning of his annual fly-in. In the morning he had an appointment back at the farm 15 kilometres away, but he showed no signs of needing an early night!

9^th Aug – We said our fond farewells to Richard and Terry, the latter giving Alan and me a lovely little pin of a Mosquito. Although we were tired from the late nights and early mornings, we were very happy and just overwhelmed with the kindness and welcome we had had at Coomalie. From Batchelor we made the short trip into Litchfield National Park.

Our first stop was a large area of ‘magnetic termite’ mounds. They are said to align their nests roughly north-south to take advantage of the warming and cooling effects of these two compass points. Some information boards, which I photographed, say that the direction can vary depending on local conditions. Smart termites!

Our next stop, Wangi Falls, is in fact two waterfalls from a stream that splits at the top of the ridge. Clustered around it is an emerald green monsoon forest, set in the pale gold of the surrounding bush. It was wonderful to walk into the cool of these tropical trees and plants, such a contrast to the relentless heat of the sun. The trees there are home to a massive colony of fruit bats, who were kicking up a terrible din, to say nothing of the smell. Golden Orb spiders were conspicuously present – I got a photograph of several of these on webs suspended between the leaves of one plant.

We were determined not to be wimps, so we completed the walk up, over the top of the waterfall, and back down the other side. On the way we passed out of the monsoon forest, up into the bush and the hot sun, then back down into forest once more. This was so pleasant – almost worth the discomfort to get such enjoyment out of the cool descent. At one stage we were surrounded by a cloud of black and white butterflies, as always too flighty for a photograph. Back at pool level,  we rewarded ourselves with a lovely refreshing swim. We had read about the fish there, so we took our masks and snorkels in, but the fish were all the same kind (grey!) and not very big. So I took photographs of Alan instead. He observed that the bottoms of my feet were filthy, so he took me to some sandy shallows and scrubbed my feet with sand! Another lady saw him doing this and got her son to do the same for her.

At the end of the day we booked into a nice little site with fairly basic amenities and sat outside until well after dark, dining at our little table complete with candles to mark the end of a very special two days indeed.

Photos

1^st Aug – We kicked off our day with a visit to the Cutta Cutta Caves. These were formed when sinkholes developed and expanded during several wet seasons long ago. The Aboriginal man guiding our tour explained that many of his kind would not enter the caves as they were thought to be where the stars went during the day – ‘cutta’ means stars and, repeated, means many stars. We understood why an ancient people might think this, as the calcite crystals forming on the rocks sparkled like tiny diamonds. Our guide, Russell, was very amusing as well as informative. He showed us where there had been damage from early tourists, who broke off stalactites to take away as souvenirs. Then there was damage from the Second World War, when Australian soldiers based nearby had held their parties in the caves to keep them out of sight of the Japanese aircraft that undertook many raids in the northern part of Australia, including Katherine itself. These naughty boys, when they’d had a few beers, would take pot shots at the stalactites. I seem to remember that Lord Byron and a friend did something similar at Cheddar Gorge. Or was it Wookey Hole? Anyway, the third form of damage at Cutta Cutta was inflicted by an earthquake in 1974 that split a column in two.

On the way back into Katherine, we stopped at the Heritage Museum, built on the site of Manbulloo Airfield, a military base during the Second World War and used by sky divers right up until the 1980s. Here we saw the Tiger Moth used by Clyde Fenton, the first flying doctor. I took some photographs of information boards about this extraordinary man so that you can read a bit about him if you wish. [Ivan – you mentioned the flying doctor, in particular his aircraft, in your last comment. You also suggested that the aircraft controls in the museum at Derby might have been from a Beaver – Alan and I both confirm they are not – you mentioned another aircraft that I can’t recall right now, but we think that you are right about this one.] The museum was a little hotch potch of agricultural equipment, tractors, light industrial gear, household objects and so on. My favourites were the prefab buildings by one Sidney Williams, Jim Zimin’s peanut digger, and a homemade peanut thresher.

The remains of the day were spent in housework. Well, a small amount of effort was devoted to a couple of minor bits of admin. First of all, the washing. It’s amusing that I keep bumping into women in the laundries of these campsites who are complaining that the washing still has to be done and, look, it’s the poor women who have to do it. Meanwhile Alan was at the toilet cassette dump point having a similar conversation with a man who was complaining that the women never seem to show up at that particular venue. We both have the same approach – jus smile and agree, why argue? But the truth is that Alan sometimes does the washing and...well, I never dump the toilet cassette. I am perfectly happy with this arrangement and I’ve told Alan that he is, too.

What we do agree about in all truthfulness is that we are looking forward to resuming our backpacking lifestyle in Darwin for a couple of weeks, when we expect to meet once more a younger set of people, or adventurous older folks, who seem more interesting in general to talk to than the types we are meeting going from caravan park to campsite to caravan park. The roads in Western Australia and the Northern Territories are ‘packed’ (when they have any traffic at all) with ‘grey nomads’ – people who have retired, sold their home, and bought their dream campervan or caravan or trailer tent. They appear to have just transferred the same old life to a home that happens to be moveable. Some of them spend a lot of time sitting around their caravans watching the neighbours and complaining about them – you can tell by the whining tones. Most have a big satellite dish that is about the first thing to get positioned so that they can watch telly – they have brought all their home comforts with them.

They also bring along their home concerns, such as getting the washing done with as little inconvenience as possible. Now, this is very difficult when you are sharing a three-machine laundry with maybe a hundred or more other campers. So there is a whole etiquette (sometimes unwritten, sometimes published by management in whole or in part on signs on the walls) about getting your clothes clean. The first big thing is that you should be standing right there as soon as the machine finishes to unload it and allow the next person in. Just in case you misjudge this by a few seconds, you should leave a laundry basket or other container so that some stranger can man-handle your smalls into it. If you leave washing beside a machine, ready to take over when it finishes its cycle, you should be there to do so immediately it becomes vacant. Otherwise some irate person will ‘bump’ you down the queue. Oh, yes my dears, I have seen some pretty extreme laundry rage. And no, it wasn’t me this time!

The other thing we find in these campsites is that the conversations are always the same. “Where are you travelling to?...Oh, we’ve been there, let me tell you about it”. An hour later you are longing for a group of young people in a Wicked campervan to pull into the slot beside so that you can have a laugh and find out what they’ve been doing, which could involve sky diving or scuba diving or other exciting things. They are often sporting interesting injuries, which can be the start of a really good conversation. There are, however, many older folks who have a great sense of fun (that doesn’t start and end at “You’re from the UK? Aww, sympathies mate” from people who have never even been there) and we hear them laughing in small groups when they get invited to bring a chair and a drink to someone’s ‘happy hour’.

2^nd Aug – Alan has become a Non Departmental Public Body with sole responsibility for organising day to day activities for the remainder of the trip. He is doing very well at sorting through the masses of information and finding new things for us to see and do. This is a difficult task in a big country that looks the same for day after day, never mind mile after mile. Today we experienced one of these in the form of Nitmiluk, or Katherine Gorge. A steep climb allowed us wonderful views over the river, then we set off to complete an inland loop back to the carpark. I fancied a fast walk, so I turned around to tell Alan I would meet him at the end and he snapped a photo of me scowling into the sun. I had to choose between deleting this or a photograph of my rear, the latter being such an alarming sight that there was no contest.

Back at the campsite we decided that it was high time we booked our flights to France. This was a frustrating online experience, battling with a network that failed twice during my transactions (I reckon someone in the office kept kicking the lead out of the modem) and a very slow internet connection. Still, in the end we got the job done and we are now booked to fly from Darwin to Singapore on 26^th August, arriving in the evening. We will probably just camp out in the airport (from memory, it’s beautifully clean) for twenty four hours before catching a flight on the evening of 27^th August to Marseille via Mumbai and Brussels. A pain, but this was the cheapest I could find. An email confirmed that our friends Vince and Carole, who live near Marseille, will be at home in France to receive us on 28^th August. When they are sick of us, we will move up to the Poitou Charente region to visit my sister, Wanda. And so on, working our way through France, maybe Ireland, and England until we run out of friends and family willing to put up with us. Hopefully we will not run out of goodwill before we get our house back at the end of October.

3^rd Aug – Alan’s breakfasts are becoming more and more bizarre. I’ve just got used to the peanut butter and anchovy paste, but today’s really takes the prize. Peanut butter, marmite and honey. And no, I didn’t try it.

Today our mission was a short drive to Kakadu, where we intend to spend a few days enjoying the sights in this national park. On the way we passed yet another style of termite mound – these ones look like fat, round towers with flying buttresses. We’ve had blobby and gothic in other places. Sometimes, as Alan observed, there are mixed communities, with all styles and sizes, ranging from your five-bed, four-bath executive home to the tiny little ‘starter homes’ dotted in between.

Our campsite near Cooinda has a wealth of birds and trees, having a large area of wetland within its boundaries. One tree was filled with rowdy white cockatoos that kept us amused until suppertime.

4^th Aug – This morning we went for a walk down beside the river and were rewarded with sightings of all manner of birds. Some of these were too small or too fast for me to photograph, but I managed to get some shots of an egret, a tiny white-breasted bird with rust-coloured wings and a black head, and the most beautiful pair of kingfisher-like birds with green breasts, blue backs and various orange, brown and black markings. Then an egret with a small fish it had caught.

I also photographed some of the signs due to the Aboriginal place names that are so long and complicated, they would rival anything the Welsh could throw at them. I also revived my career as a Dead Wildlife Photographer – there was the most perfect little frog skin lying on the roadside near one of the signs, I just had to get a photo. You could almost imagine this hanging on a rail in a frog suit shop with others in various sizes and colours. Or that the owner had died whilst dancing a minuet.

Then we went on to visit an amazing slab of tilted, layered rock. The sedimentary rocks here contain many shells and stones, the latter being today’s special. At times it was like walking over concrete made by some giant using large pebbles. Here and there the pebbles had been washed loose from the soft rock, making loose scree. I had never seen anything like this before. From the lookout at the top of our climb we had a wonderful view across this wild countryside. Alan took a photograph of me standing on the edge of our big table top to try and give some impression of the scale and perspective.

Next we visited a site where Aboriginal tribes used to shelter during the wet season. The tilted plates of rock with softer layers eroded from underneath had formed some really large cave-like (but not fully enclosed otherwise they would not have entered) structures where they would live for several months. The walls are decorated with cave art, the youngest of which is judged to be one thousand years old. Others date back nine or ten thousand years. We were particularly taken by the description of one of the subjects, Nabulwinjbulwinj, who used to strike females with a yam, then eat them. The females not the yam. What an eejit. If he’d kept the females they would soon have whipped him up a nice curry or something with all those yams.

Lunch was made and enjoyed by Anbangbang Billabong. Alan challenges anyone to say this very quickly, three times. Even if you manage it, it sounds funny. Well, it amused us. Maybe that’s why we don’t get invited to parties these days! :O)

 5^th Aug – Our destination today was the small town of Jabiru and its surrounding area, in particular a uranium mine that produces 10 per cent of the world’s uranium. The mine occupies a highly sensitive site right on the edge of Kakadu National Park, which is a World Heritage Site. Inside the park there is not one bit of industry or any activity that could damage the natural landscape or water quality. Then there is this great big mine just on the fringes. Most people, like I did, I have to be honest, perceive uranium mining to be a hazardous and life-threatening activity. Our tour guide, a man from the mining industry but approved by the tourism industry, explained how even the workers in the mine are exposed to lower radiation than people living in natural stone houses. However, due to the general ignorance and misconceptions in the public at large, the mine company has to take some extreme precautions. All water used in the operation, for example, pumped out of the bottom of the mine, has to be sequestered so that it does not get into the water table. In fact, it is so highly filtered and treated that it has to be ‘dirtied’ before being released on to the land – this is what the guide said and I meant to ask him later what he meant, but presumably it’s just to do with adding bacteria found in nature.

Photographs of the mine include a couple of a large truck sitting under a yellow frame. Detectors suspended from the frame take just a few seconds to detect the level of uranium contained in the rock – the information is displayed to the driver, who then takes the load to whichever heap contains ore at that level. The only person we saw in a protective suit was a man responsible for unloading sulphuric acid from a long ‘road train’ into storage. The acid is used in the uranium oxide extraction process. Uranium oxide is what is exported from Australia contained in 40 gallon drums. Only when it reaches its destination in Europe or America does it undergo further processing to make it into the ‘enriched’ uranium that goes into the rods for nuclear power station reactors.

The tour was fascinating and highlighted the scariness of our demands for energy in the Western World (of which Australia is counted as a part). Alan and I had often remarked, as we travelled through South East Asia – what if all these poor people wanted to move out of their wooden shacks and into a house with air conditioning, a fridge, and all our mod cons? Apparently only 25 per cent of the world lives like we do. We can’t blame the other 75 per cent for aspiring to this, but it’s just too scary to think of the cost to the Earth.

Wow – nearly went all Save the World, Save the Whale, Save the Plastic Bag just now. No, that should be ban the Plastic Bag. Oh, did I tell you before about the racist joke we saw on the rear of a Wicked campervan over here? It said, “Save the whale, kill a Jap”. You just wouldn’t be allowed to say that in Europe!

Where were we – oh yes, Jabiru. The little airfield was a delight and I got photos of lots of wee planes, William, and some helicopters, too. Sadly I missed a beauty of a shot as we drove past the end of the runway and two light aircraft were taxiing straight towards us to take off. But we were on a mission to catch a mine tour, so no time to stop.

6^th Aug – This morning we set off to do a 10 kilometre walk at yet another place with an unpronounceable name. It was baking hot, but we had our faithful Nike trainers on, our hats, and a big bottle of water. A few steps along the path, we each picked up our own personal squadron of fat black flies that droned into place and kept up a holding pattern around our heads for the whole two hours of our walk. We could have whirled our arms until they unscrewed from their sockets and it would have made no difference to this lot. I tried applying a second layer of a different insect repellent as they seemed to relish the special ‘Bushman’ extra strength stuff we had just bought. Nope, they lapped up this one, too. I felt like asking them if they wanted ice and lemon with it. Sometimes the solemn humming would stop and, at first, I thought this was a good thing. Wrong! Bad thing. This meant that they had taken up position somewhere on the body and eventually there would be a sharp nip when one of them sank its fangs in.

The scenery was mainly woodland with occasional sandstone outcrops in impossible shapes. We passed by a sign warning of certain death or injury by crocodile when walking in this area, then we reached a billabong and there was a crocodile. Thankfully it was on the far side of the water and too far away to tell if it was the relatively harmless ‘freshie’ or a deadly ‘saltie’. It looked big enough to be the latter, but we didn’t stop to ask him.

Soon we were walking in soft sand that stole inches from every stride. Add this to the continuing buzzing and nipping of the flies plus the heat that made sunscreen run into the eyes and I had had enough. Alan kept stopping to look at the view, such as it was, so in the end we agreed that I could stride on and get back to the van to have a cold drink waiting. As I staggered up and down sandbanks I felt like the tragic heroine in some film featuring lots of sand and flies – you know that sort of stumbling, almost-falling run that actors in Westerns used to do as they emerged from the desert and said something like, “Look out, it’s...” then died?

I’m glad to say that we both survived, Alan with slightly more dignity than me as usual. But we both agree we have had enough of this endless landscape of woodland, rocky outcrops and wetlands. Next time we see a bushwalk, we are going to drive on past. We did stop off once more today to look at some very significant ancient rock art. We love how the Aboriginals used stories to get practical messages across to their children, but you know something? We are starting to feel about their art, the way we felt about temples in Thailand. Just too much of it to take it all in. The view from the top of the mountain was good and we could see some controlled burning under way. This is carried out in the early dry season and serves to keep down plants that would become a pest otherwise, but, more importantly, it keeps the bush at a level where the impact of wildfires in the height of the dry season is minimised. The Aboriginals had used this method of renewing and managing the land for many years and now it is carried out on a large scale, official basis, with helicopters dropping incendiaries into the least accessible places.

Oh, a little bit of cultural information. In this part of Australia, the sale of alcohol is strictly controlled because, apparently, the Aboriginal people cannot handle it and it causes harm to their families and systems and other people. In Jabiru, Alan asked the lady at the supermarket checkout if there was a bottle shop (as they call off-licences) in town. She answered, “No, but you can buy it at the golf club. But you have to become a member. That takes six weeks.” We weren’t that desperate to have a bottle of wine with dinner!

Overnight was spent at one of the remote bush camps rather than in a caravan park. Although we can’t stay in these more than every other night due to drain on the battery (and lack of toast in the morning!) we like these best of all. They are perfectly dark at night and great for seeing the night sky. Sunset can be enjoyed in peace and that’s exactly what we did, accompanied by an Australian girl who was travelling on her own. Not so strange when you learn that she was a park ranger at Uluru (Ayres Rock to you and me) and is looking for work around Kakadu. We had a really stimulating conversation about the Aboriginal people, about the environment and so on, but the thing I remember, which is probably an accurate reflection of my intellect, is that a ‘bogan’ is the Aussie equivalent of a red-neck. Not good for all the people with a surname Bogan!

7^th Aug – We’ve decided to move on from Kakadu to another National Park called Lichfield, where there are supposed to be waterholes for swimming. As I was plodding along the little track from the shower block (rudimentary but adequate) this morning, I saw Alan dodging in and out of the bushes trying to jump out at me. So when he came back I was waiting for him and shot him with my camera. In fact, he looked much as he had done at sunset last evening, except the bottle of beer had been replaced by a washbag and towel.

Photos

PARISH NOTICES – It was great to get so many comments on the last blog, makes us feel more in touch with all of those we care for back home. Even if Anne v A disagreed vehemently with me over whistlers (I still say they should be shot if they whistle loudly enough to impose on others!) and if Susie B says that mozzies are attracted to cheesy feet!! Just because your putter has a pink grip, Your Lady Captainest ;O). And Lyn, we used to have to buy kapok for domestic science until I escaped from its clutches into something much more useful, like Latin! Trudy, so glad you don’t take me seriously – just like your Dad :o)

25^th Jul – I might have known one of my bros would spot the aircraft controls in the photographs from the museum in Derby. Ivan, we cannot remember the name of the aircraft, but I recall reading that it had a heavy body and big wings to allow it to fly and land at low speeds. It wasn’t a Lysander, it was later than that. The story behind the wreckage, however, is that once upon a time a cyclone was heading in the direction of Derby and the aircraft was on the ground there. The locals gathered up all sorts of metal objects and loaded these into the body of the aircraft to help hold it down. Sadly not enough. The aircraft was blown over and the metal objects became missiles, peppering the fuselage beyond repair.

This morning we set off for Fitzroy Crossing, where there were two reasons for staying – visits to Geike Gorge and to the Mimbi Caves, the latter a sacred site for Aboriginals, containing many old paintings. After booking in at a caravan site for two nights, we set off for Geike Gorge. Apart from the blistering heat trapped between its limestone walls and some interesting rock formations, we were left underwhelmed. So we retired to our campsite for the evening.

26^th Jul – After hanging out our washing we went to the visitors’ centre to a book a trip to the Mimbi Caves this afternoon. Quelle disastre – all booked up! We had already agreed that Fitzroy Crossing had nothing to recommend it but the road out of town, so we decided to make tracks and sacrifice our second night that we had paid for in the caravan park – thankfully one of the cheapest we have been in. Just in time I remembered the washing on the line back there, so we zipped in, grabbed the washing and took off. Unfortunately what we did not remember to do was refuel. The next opportunity was too far away for the amount of diesel we had remaining, so we had no option but to turn around and retrace the 20 kilometres it took us to realise our mistake. Seeing Fitzroy Crossing once is probably enough for most people, but having to see it twice...

The Mimbi Caves were on our route into the East Kimberley, so we decided to go and see them for ourselves. It just wasn’t to be. A large sign at the gate warned that visits were to be by prior arrangement only and we have been advised not to upset the Aboriginal people. So we carried on to Hall’s Creek, stopping only long enough to use the internet and refuel.

Tonight we will stop at Leycestor’s Rest, one of the remote 24-hour parking places that provide respite for travellers who either want outback peace and quiet or who can’t afford to stay in a paid site every night. In fact, if you had your own generator and all the right kit it would be so much cheaper just to stay in these places, but our van should be plugged into mains power every other night. And I do like my shower in the morning!

What a difference a day makes! The countryside has gone from flat with low bushes to rolling, folded hills dotted with hardy little trees. We can see craggy mountains in the distance, directly where we are heading towards. From time to time we see the names of cattle stations at the end of dirt tracks leading off into the bush, with no sight of the farmhouse, which is probably many miles from the road. Then we drive for an hour or more before seeing another sign that marks the end of the previous station and the start of the next. Some of these immense, wilderness farms are easily the size of a small English county.

Since seeing them on our approach to Derby and from the bus on our trip to Windjana Gorge a couple of days ago, we have been watching out for a kapok tree to photograph. It’s amazing how quickly this makes the time pass, but boy does it play havoc with the eyes, straining into the bright sunlight for the distinctive yellow flowers. And the trouble with Wobbly is that, with full water tanks and everything on board including the kitchen sink, it’s a bit like stopping the Queen Mary, so no spontaneous changes of direction or speed can be undertaken. These have to be planned about a kilometre in advance. Just when we were starting to think we had missed our chance, there was a kapok tree. We threw out all anchors, deployed the emergency parachute and executed an emergency stop to the shushing sound of our large water containers sliding up the floor to join us at the front. I executed a hundred-metre dash back to where it stood and finally got my photograph of a kapok tree.

As we got closer to our stopping place for the night I was warning Alan that, if no one else was there, we should not stay. We have been told on several occasions to make sure we only stop in places where there are other people. On arrival at Leycestor’s Rest, it was patently obvious that all my worries had been in vain. The place was bunged out! We were lucky to find a little spot on the fringes and settled in to make dinner and watch the full moon come up. As it rose, we went for a walk and I attempted some photographs. Odd, the things we disagree about these days (have I said this before – it seems familiar!). I took a photograph of the moon shining through a tree and Alan was saying, why don’t you come this way a bit, you can get a clear shot of it. So I took mine through the tree and one for Alan without the tree. Mine is the much better photograph, I think you will agree, mostly because it is not blurred. I didn’t sabotage Alan’s shot on purpose, it was simply that, when taking mine, I was able to rest the camera on the bonnet of the van, whereas his was taken without support.

27^th Jul – Our drive today, from Leycestor’s Rest to Kununurra, took us deeper into hilly country and the trees are becoming ever taller and greener. Just like Scotland with sunshine! Also, the wildflowers are coming into bloom, creating little patches of purple amongst the red dirt and grasses. As if to rub salt in the wound, we are now seeing whole groves of kapok trees alongside the road.

We took a short diversion just 50 kilometres short of Kununurra to visit Emma Gorge. Sadly (for me) this gorge was along yet another corrugated dirt road – 23 kilometres’ worth of it! Alan was driving at the time, so I sat in the passenger seat clinging to my seat and trying to ignore the dreadful noise.

Finally we reached a little oasis where we paid $10 to park and walk. We set off with our bottle of water, map and towels to do the couple of kilometres to the head of the gorge, where we were promised a lovely, deep pool for swimming. This cosy, pretty little gorge did not disappoint. The cliff walls created a narrow, boulder-littered way that we shared with a gentle stream of the clearest water. We did notice, however, that some of the pools suffered from blanket weed, just like any fishpond back home. The vegetation now has a distinctly tropical feel to it, with palm trees growing wild amongst the more usual wattle, eucalyptus and, yes, kapok (lots).

When we reached the spot for swimming, we found it to be a beautiful, large, shady pool enclosed by high walls with water falling in large droplets from the overhanging cliffs. Although there were quite a few others there, it did not seem crowded due to the abundance of large rocks affording some privacy as well as a sunny place to lay out towels. As we entered the water, a man pointed out a water monitor on a rock, so I was able to get some photographs, although these were not great as I was bobbing about on the water trying not to drown, having swum across to get a closer shot. On the way back down through the gorge I spotted some kapok with the fruit that will eventually open to reveal the seeds born on tough fibres. I got a photograph of these fruits in their green stage – now I just need a photograph of the fruit bursting open! I did, however, snap the end of the runway out at Emma Gorge. Pretty dusty and bumpy it looked, too.

On our approach to Kununurra we crossed the mighty Ord River, the first significant body of freshwater we have seen since leaving Perth, and Australia’s second-largest reservoir. Kununurra itself is a ‘new’ town, having been created in the 1960’s as a base for agriculture, benefitting from an irrigation system  that is kept flowing by the 50 kilometre long and 30 kilometre wide Lake Argyle, created by the damming of the Ord River in the early 1970s. The town is very pleasant with lots of shops and people walking about, unlike the ‘frontier’ style towns we have passed through recently. And green everywhere!

28^th Jul – The nearby Mirima National Park is home to some mini ‘Bungle Bungles’, the beehive-shaped, layered rock formations that give their name to a much larger park in the East Kimberley. On the walk we took, there were signs beside some of the trees explaining a little about them. I now have a picture of a sign about kapok trees! On reaching the highest point of our walk, it was a bit of a surprise to find out how close we were to the edges of the town. There below us were some large buildings for light industry of some sort, but the view of the town beyond was quite pleasant, as it has so many trees for shade.

Later we went to another lookout over the town – Kelly’s Knob. It was sad to see how some people thought it fit to leave their takeaway cartons lying on the ground here for someone else to clear up. There are so many kapok trees now that we don’t feel the need to comment each time we see one. Well, Alan still does, just to annoy me. I got a photograph of the creamy flowers of the caustic tree that I mentioned in an earlier blog. This is the one that eventually bears seedpods containing a gel-like substance that can cause blindness or severe burns to the skin.

A drive out through endless acres of cultivated fields brought us to the sandalwood farm that I wanted to visit. We watched an informative film that told how a company called Tropical Forestry Services had spotted that the output from the native sandalwood in India, which produces essential oils for the health and beauty industries, would not be sufficient to meet demand in future years. They have now successfully grown the Indian sandalwood here in Australia (the native sandalwood is not used for commercial purposes) and, by purchasing the largest producer of sandalwood products, Mount Romance, the company is now set to dominate the world’s sandalwood market. From one of the lookouts we climbed to, we had seen the fields of sandalwood plantations stretching as far as the eye could see, so we take this statement to be true!

29^th Jul – Having just a short drive to do today, we took a short diversion out to see Ivanhoe Crossing, an old cattle drovers’ crossing and, later, a dam that proved inadequate, necessitating the building of the dam at Lake Argyle. The old dam wall is now a ford across the Ord River. Information leaflets at the tourism office and signs out at the location warn of the danger of attempting this crossing without a four wheel drive vehicle and experience of driving it. I could see why when, just before we left there, a vehicle and trailer turned up to make the crossing. Clearly the driver knew what he was doing, but the large bow wake he kicked up and the slippery surface of this underwater ‘bridge’ could catch out the unwary. The bird life around this ford was amongst the best we have seen for variety and numbers. Out on the water there were cormorants, darters and an enormous pelican. On the banks we had willy wagtails, a form of magpie, mini doves and a large flock of tiny little crimson finches. The photographs are not good due to having to use digital zoom to catch them at all.

Our drive to Lake Argyle took us through tight little valleys and our first view of the lake, against the red of the surrounding hills, was quite spectacular. On checking in, we found out that there were places remaining on a sightseeing boat trip on the lake later in the day, so we booked up on the spot. This was a lovely cruise, in a spacious, state-of-the-art sightseeing boat complete with pull-down maps and a large screen to display the information that the captain was using regarding depth of water under the keel and position on the lake. Having watched a video on the construction of the dam before setting off, it was fascinating to see parts that we ‘recognised’, including the 18-story-tall gates that allow water to go into a diversion dam during the wet season. There is a photograph of these gates, but only the top third shows above the water.

Wildlife on the water and on the islands was abundant. We saw several freshwater crocodiles, many birds, and some wallaroos, or euros. Oh, and a little Cessna Caravan seaplane exactly like the one we flew in two years ago on a visit to the Whitsundays – the photograph at the top of the web page was taken as we approached Whitehaven Beach to touch town for a swim and a picnic. Anyway, back to the present! Towards the end of our tour we stopped mid-lake for a swim and drinks and nibbles while watching the sun go down. Most of us on the boat were grey-haired or faking it, and it was heartening to see how many people didn’t hesitate before jumping into the water. The water was refreshing without being as chilly as the sea back home and it was lovely to swim through the golden light - not the most spectacular sunset we have seen, but then again, we have been totally spoilt!

Alan asked the skipper about some plants that we are seeing more and more of. They look and smell like cabbage and I only just managed to stop Alan from eating some the other day. Thank goodness I did! The skipper explained that these are highly poisonous and that they were accidentally imported into Australia by Afghan traders, who used the fibrous material from the seed pods to stuff their saddles. HOLD ON! Does this sound familiar to anyone? It certainly did to me. That woman who interjected in our conversation with the curator of the Aboriginal arts centre near Derby had said that the kapok came in this way, but I have since heard it referred to as a native kapok, so not imported then. I’ve tried Googling Afghan traders and saddles and plants and Australia and cabbage and all combinations of the above, with no luck. Mind you, I don’t suppose you really mind too much if I get the occasional detail wrong, but I don’t want to become chief minister in the Ministry of Misinformation in our little travelling democracy!

30^th Jul – This morning we set off early for a walk along the river gorge, but even at 8am the sun was extremely hot. The path was not well defined, so we found that the spinifex grass was prickling our ankles as we walked. Even worse for me were the knicker-elastic-tough spiders’ webs we kept walking through. No, make that ‘I kept walking through’, thanks to Alan’s obsession with being tail-end Charlie. In the end I was walking with an arm straight out the front, wagging it up and down as if doing a very poor elephant impression. I was relieved when we came across a road and could walk home in some comfort.

The rest of the day made up for the morning walk, however. We took some time out in the campervan with the air conditioning running whilst I blogged and Alan read. After lunch we set off down the road to visit an old cattle station house that had been taken down stone by stone and relocated when the valley was flooded to form Lake Argyle. The family Durack, whose home it had been, had been spawned by an Irish man, Patsy Durack, and his English wife in the 19^th century. Their bodies lie just outside the reconstructed homestead and it is a very poignant and beautiful place, their graves sheltering under a golden showers tree with its pendulous seed pods.

Leaving the distant past behind, we then went to look at the more recent history of this area. At a lookout we were fortunate to see two of the little sightseeing seaplanes take off – I just about managed to catch one taking off over the other one, still on the water, but not the perfect shot I would have hoped for thanks to some grass that got in the way.

We drove across the dam wall and down to a park where we could look at the three enormous outlet pipes that lead from the 18-storey construction we had seen from the boat yesterday on the other side of the enormous wall. This wall was constructed using no concrete at all. It has a clay core flanked by sand, all held in place by tons and tons of rock sloped against it. This construction allows water to get through to the clay, keeping it moist and therefore waterproof.

We then backtracked to the lookout we had recced earlier and, that we had agreed, would make the perfect spot for a picnic to watch the sun go down. It being far too early to make a start on this, I undertook some light housework, scrubbing the floor that was still showing red stain from the dust that has been with us through The Pilbara and West Kimberley. Somehow it doesn’t seem such a chore when there is a spectacular view just outside the window!

Later we watched the little orange boat go out, that we had caught yesterday. We saw and heard all kinds of birds that my ‘Birds of the Kimberley’ is proving no help in identifying. We spotted lizards of all sizes from just a couple of inches long to over a foot. Then we watched a beautiful dragonfly perching on the top of a branch, flitting up from time to time but settling back on the same branch. The highlight of my day had to be when one of the little seaplanes returned and dropped off its passengers just below us, taking off again in the dusk. Truly an idyllic spot for a picnic – or even for a bit of housework!

31^st Jul – Today we undertook our longest continuous drive yet, from Lake Argyle to Katherine. During the drive we crossed from Western Australia into the Northern Territories and instantly leapt forward an hour and a half.  The 560 kilometres seemed to pass quite quickly, however, interspersed by a spot of lunch taken by the side of the road in the blistering heat. Temperatures during the day are generally in the mid thirties and don’t drop below twenty at night. Strange how the many shady rest places provided out here just seem to disappear when you want one!

From time to time we were treated to glimpses of the mighty Victoria River and the countryside continues to sport an unseasonably green coat. This is due to rains we missed, but are now benefitting from indirectly as nature puts on its best show. On reaching Katherine, our first stop was a caravan park to book in for a couple of nights, then downtown to do some shopping. Alan spotted the statue of an Aboriginal stockman of some note and went off to take a photograph. Back at the park, I cooked up a very acceptable chicken noodle soup, even though I say so myself, then the evening took a bit of a downturn as our area of the park suffered a power cut. The air conditioning in the back of the van can only function when plugged into mains, so we are dripping with perspiration as I write. There are too many mosquitoes for us to sit outdoors – is this what it feels like to be between the devil and the deep blue sea?

Thankfully the power came on later, as it was still in the high twenties at a quarter past nine. Relief!

Photos

22^nd Jul - I realise that, in my piece on the pearls of Broome, I omitted to mention that the pearl oyster shells were originally collected for the mother of pearl coating their insides rather than for the pearls themselves. Apparently only one good pearl was found for every 5,000 harvested and, of course, they were wildly expensive as a result, only affordable for kings and queens and sultans. The mother of pearl was in common use for button-making and, in later years, provided the shimmer in metallic paints.

We had a wonderful couple of hours on the beach last evening watching the sun go down. As I write, however, I am trying to get over the fact that I missed the most beautiful shots of what looked like a fairly old-fashioned sail boat against the pink and purple sky. I had forgotten to pop my camera in the bag with our towels and, by the time I had crossed the vast expanse of Cable Beach, climbed the steps, negotiated the car park, retrieved my camera, then completed the journey in reverse, the image had lost its magic. Although I got some nice shots, the boat was now sideways on giving the more traditional view, and the fast-fading light led to some very fuzzy shots. I will never forget the sight, however, of this little boat sailing straight at the shore, its sails gull-winged and the sinking sun highlighting their billows.

Some cooking therapy helped me get over my loss and I produced a meal I was quite proud of – pan-fried (this always sounds so much healthier than just ‘fried) fillet of threadgill salmon (this fish has firm white flesh, not oily like our native salmon) on vegetable ribbons (carrot, courgette and turnip shaved off in strands with the gadget I bought in Fremantle and lightly steamed) with a butter, caper and white wine sauce ‘finished’ with lemon juice. In case you think I am getting above myself with all this chefy talk, we also had a steamed green leaf vegetable that had some Chinese name I cannot remember (and before you all say bok choi, no it wasn’t!).

The landscape between Broome and Derby (pronounced as it is written) was different again to that seen before. Now the creeks we are crossing actually have some water in them and small pools glint between the trees. Alan made the connection between the increase in water supply and the taller plant life. He’s not just a pretty face. Amongst the others from time to time we see the oddly-shaped boab trees, their massive barrel trunks crowned with a tangle of twisted limbs. Amidst the orangey-yellow tassels of the ubiquitous acacia or wattle, we have been spotting a strange naked-looking tree with no leaves and just a few delicate yellow blooms. I can’t yet name this one, but I will try to find out, also to get a photograph. I’m afraid I have an uneasy relationship with yellow flowers in general (good if very pale or used as an accent colour, not good in bulk) and I thought the acacia blossoms looked a bit vulgar against their lime green foliage and the bright blue sky.

Continuing the tree theme, we stopped just outside Derby to see a local landmark, the Prison Tree. This is a boab tree with a particularly large and roomy hollow trunk. It provided shelter to groups of Aboriginal prisoners being herded towards Broome and into forced labour for the pearling industry. Evidence of their passing, marked in the bark, is still visible. Today the humans are kept away by a fence, but some bees had taken up residence and were happily engaged in making honey.

On arrival at Derby, we realised that we had been guided well by our book that said there was little to see here, but that it was a good starting-off point for trips into Windjana Gorge deep in the Kimberley region, a vast part of north west Australia noted for its wildernesses and mountain ranges, as well as diamond mines. Our intention to spend only two nights here, having booked a trip for tomorrow, was shot clear out of the water when we arrived at the caravan park to be told that our trip had been oversubscribed and we were now bumped over to the next day, Saturday. The park owner was so helpful, ringing the tour company and acting as our go-between, that we just couldn’t be cross and so we booked a third night. I’m sure we will find something to fill our time for the rest of today and tomorrow.

We started by making a short walking tour of the town. It is another of these places without a heart. By this, I think I mean that it lacks a village green, or a park, or some other adornments that announce, “This is the town centre. You can buy stuff, book stuff, or just find out stuff here”. Lots of Aboriginal people are hanging about in groups and lounging beneath the trees, which does not look right to us, but I was to find out later that it is just their way to lie about talking in the shade. If the town were not here, they would be doing the same thing. It is just the equivalent of us sitting in our back gardens. I must say, however, that we do see other groups hanging around the bottle shops waiting for opening time.

This evening we braved the communal ‘barbie’ area to cook our chicken. A very nice man with his Middlesbrough accent intact despite 30 years living in New South Wales, made room for me (well, for my chicken, actually) on his barbecue plate. I say ‘plate’ because these much-vaunted Aussie barbies are not at all as you would imagine. They are just steel plates that are heated by gas or wood fires. To me, you may as well stay at home and stick your food in a frying pan. I dared to hint that a barbecue ought to at least reward you with a few flames and a hint of wood smoke flavour. At this, a squat fellow with The Goatee Beard gave me a look so murderous, I was glad to get out of there in one piece. Mind you, an eejit from Nottingham, now living somewhere in Australia, was lucky to escape my wrath when he harped on about how bad England was and how he would never want to go back. Had he ventured outside his native Nottingham to walk in the beautiful countryside of the nearby Peak District, or had had the imagination to visit an ancient church or a country estate, then he would be nothing but proud of his English heritage. He and his like do not deserve to live in our great little country that is the UK and Australia is welcome to them.

23^rd Jul – This morning we took our time over breakfast, then headed out to one of the few attractions around here, the Mowanjum Art and Culture Centre. This sponsored project has seen the building of a really large art gallery, and an outdoor auditorium is under construction. The art gallery is mainly populated by the works of Aboriginal artists from a local ‘community’ (we would call it a village) here in Derby. Most of the paintings were of Aboriginal spirit gods, the Wandjina, but we were most taken by the little tableaux etched on to skins of the boab fruit. We had seen these fruits hanging from all the boab trees seen so far. They start off as green, avocado-like droplets. As they get older they turn into the loveliest brown suede and grow to the size of a large mango, providing the perfect canvas for the pictures of indigenous animals, birds and plants that are scratched into the skin. Before I saw these amazing little works of art, I have to confess that, in my ignorance, I thought the Aboriginals were only capable of the naive paintings of dots and lines that most of us are familiar with.

At the art centre we found the answers to a couple of questions we had posed earlier. You may recall that Alan had observed the dotted effect of the spinifex grass clumps on the red hills of the Pilbara, and that he wondered if this was the inspiration for the paintings consisting mainly of dots. The lady in charge answered that this is absolutely right and that the Aboriginal people have the ability to see the landscape in a completely different way to you and me. We also found out that the naked-looking trees with the pale lemon blossom are kapok trees. This was fascinating for us, having seen one of these back in the Komodo National Park at the stage where the flower had long gone and been replaced by the fibrous seed head. A lady who happened to be passing heard our question and joined in to tell us that the seeds of the kapok tree were thought to have arrived with Afghan traders, who passed through this region with their camel trains. The Afghanis used the fluffy seed heads to stuff their saddles and mattresses. On the way out we tried to spot one of these trees for a photograph. Typical, when you start looking for one, they are impossible to spot. We settled for a photograph of the wattle instead, which actually looks like small, bright yellow catkins.

Heading back into town, we stopped at the visitor centre to collect the key to a little museum housed in the one-time wharf manager’s house. We let ourselves into the little veranda-wrapped wooden bungalow and found ourselves in an Aladdin’s cave of yesteryear. Many artefacts were lying open to touch, including some collections of old vinyl records that must surely have been worth a fortune. Ladies’ magazines from the 1920s, newspaper clippings, and old parish notices were in clear inserts in folders and a complete set of Encyclopaedia Britannica occupied three shelves of a bookcase. The rooms were not laid out as a look at the wharf manager’s, or ‘wharfinger’s’ life, but as a museum of important events in the town’s history, such as the replacement of landline with microwave and the closure of the leprosarium. The whole thing was charming and we felt privileged to have had it to ourselves for a brief time. We locked up and returned the key to the visitor centre, hoping that all its visitors would treat the little museum with the same respect as we did. Mind you, I don’t know how we’ll fit those old 78s in our luggage!

Next stop, lunch overlooking a rather murky, mangrove-fringed bay where the jetty pokes out to sea. It had been used for cattle export and, to this day, the jetty-long tunnel that the cattle were driven through remains. To round off the day’s excitement we went to see another old boab tree overlooking the mudflats that almost surround Derby.  This one featured in the town’s history as a chief exporter of beef. Herds of around 500 cattle would be driven here via a watering hole at the Prison Boab, reaching the ‘Dinner Camp’ around lunchtime, where the drovers would rest in the shade of the boab during the hottest hours before completing the short distance to the town’s jetty. I was amused to see the ‘No camping’ sign beneath the Dinner Camp nameplate. But I’m easily amused these days.

Final thought for the day. People who whistle loudly (whether tunefully or not) should be shot. There is a very good reason why it is considered ill-mannered. Alan cooled me off with a nice ice cream with coloured sprinkles bought from a little pink van that pootled about the campsite playing ‘Greensleeves’.

24^th Jul – We clambered aboard a lofty 4WD bus this morning to join a tour out to Windjana Gorge and Tunnel Creek. Our drive took us across flood plains of three rivers, countryside the like of which I have seen before and thought it had been cleared by man for grazing. But we were told that this is all natural landscape and that it is the force and depth of the water at each wet season that kills off everything but the grass and a few other hardy plants.

The reason we took a tour to these particular highlights of the Kimberley is the Gibb River Road. This notorious unsealed road goes almost as straight as an arrow for 660 kilometres through some fairly inhospitable-looking countryside, interspersed with some sightseeing gems courtesy of the mountain ranges that it passes through. When our 4WD bus eventually left the bitumen part (funded by the diamond mine as far as the mine entrance) we were so pleased that we had left Wobbly to rest for the day. The road was very corrugated in places and it was a rough and noisy ride. After a couple of hours’ driving we arrived at Windjana Gorge, a deep river gorge with sheer limestone cliffs either side. The cliffs look grey because they are coated with algae that gleams black in the wet. The amazing boab trees could be seen clinging on to little ledges above – a feat they can manage due to a shallow root system.

At Windjana we were able to get up close and personal with some little freshwater crocodiles that had no intention of eating us, in fact I think the photographs show some of them with the armour-plated ‘hackles’ on their tails raised in distress. Apparently there are usually scores of crocodiles lounging on the banks, but our tour guide remarked that the reduced numbers meant something had scared them. A little while later, we had our answer. A bedraggled woman, certainly old enough and probably local enough to know better, came over to boast that she had gone into the waterhole for a swim. Our guide was cross with her, explaining that the little crocodiles are quite territorial and, when something as big as us invades their territory, they become quite upset and hide away.

At Tunnel Creek we scrambled over rocks and into a tunnel to see the underground stream that flows there. From time to time we had to wade, the water coming up almost to the bottom of our shorts. There were a couple of breaks in the tunnel roof where we were able to admire the majesty of the rock formations, carved out by flood water that can fill the tunnel in an hour. We also saw some little horseshoe bats up on the roof. At the far end of the tunnel we came to a swimming hole with no tiny crocodiles to scare. Alan and I went in for a swim – the only ones in our group who did. Still, more room for us to mess about.

On the long and bumpy trip back to Derby our journey was broken by stops to see an old police house (now in ruins) where we were introduced to a tree called a brauhenia, which is symbolic of the relationship between mother-in-law and son-in-law in Aboriginal tradition. The tree bears leaves in pairs, joined by a single stem, but the leaves point in opposite directions. Apparently, when an Aboriginal mother-in-law walks into a room or even on to a bus, the son-in-law has to leave immediately. There was no explanation as to why this should be, but you can be sure it is rooted in some sort of ancient wisdom!

We also stopped at an ancient boab reckoned to be 2,000 years old. I found out that the ‘fruits’ I had referred to earlier are actually called boab nuts and we had the opportunity to taste one of these. We learned that the Aboriginals used to gather these when they were green and the inside fairly tasteless but full of vitamin C (did they know this? I didn’t ask), mixing it with honey from tiny, stingless bush bees that often nest in the boab trunks (we saw this at the Prison Boab). The one we tasted was at its more mature stage, where the outer skin becomes tough and brown. Inside was a substance with a similar colour and texture to plain halva. When sucked, this releases a slightly lemony flavour and, when moistened enough, can be chewed and swallowed. The seeds are contained inside this protective layer of loft insulation.

Although we saw kapok trees, the bus was on the move and I was unable to get a photograph of these, or of the ‘caustic tree’, whose seedpod carries a sap that can burn skin badly, or blind someone who gets it in their eyes. Also spotted but not photographed –a large congregation (I don’t know the collective noun!) of bustards, or bush turkeys. When they took off, their wingspan was enormous. The Aboriginals eat these birds and our guide told us not to get confused with the brush turkeys from the east coast, which are inedible.

Just time to prepare dinner and have a chat before bed. I should have slept well after such a long day, but for the second night I have been plagued with itching from the mosquito bites I have sustained since arriving here in Derby. I will have to put in more effort with the antihistamine cream. Alan, as ever, seems unbothered by these critters.

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19^th Jul – Our day started with a visit to the Malcolm Douglas Wildlife Reserve. Malcolm is a renowned conservationist and crocodile expert in this area and most of the crocodiles in his park have all been born and bred in captivity, although some were taken from places where they were posing a real hazard to humans. Thankfully the park is not just about watching a man in shorts chucking a big float into a murky green pond to provoke an attack. There are also some beautiful birds and mammals. My favourites are always kangaroos or what turn out to be, as I am learning, wallabies or even wallaroos! Apparently there are no kangaroos as far north west as this, so the hopping creatures we see now in the wilds are various forms of wallaby. I don’t care what they are called, they are so beautiful, especially the little red-necked wallaby with a baby in its pouch and another small and very yummy mummy, a wallaroo, that was carrying what looked like a teenager in its pouch. She hopped over to see us and sniffed our fingers, not really frightened at all.

We do seem to be putting in a lot of beach time for two people who declare themselves not to be fond of this activity. But when the beaches are so white and the sea such a wonderful turquoise blue, not to mention the hot sun, then there is no better way to cool off. So we headed for Broome’s famous Cable Beach in the afternoon and were not disappointed. Although there must have been hundreds of people there, it did not feel crowded, it is so big.

20^th Jul – Sometimes you just get a feeling that it’s time to leave the campervan parked up and use the transport on offer. So it was with a trip out to Willy Creek today to visit the pearl farm. Our decision to book a tour rather than drive out ourselves was soon vindicated when the bitumen road degenerated into a very badly-maintained dirt road. Then we swung on to a narrow sand track. All the time he was swinging his steering wheel and guiding us over the dips and humps, our driver kept up a most interesting commentary. He pointed out the messy-looking trees beside the track, explaining that these are melaleucas, or tea trees, those of the famous cure-all oil. Another use he pointed out was as firewood for campers. Apparently the logs burn slowly and very hot.

He also told us how Broome’s pearl potential had been discovered by accident, by two brothers who were on their way to the original Western Australian pearling town of Cossack when they dropped anchor here in Roebuck Bay to overnight in its shelter. They noticed massive pearl oysters in the clear water and abandoned their original destination, where the shells were only about half the size of these beauties. Soon the town was set up and mainly European pearl masters commissioned a fleet of over 400 pearl luggers, the special boats they used, and forced the local aboriginal population to free dive to depths of up to 15 metres to collect the shells.

A British man introduced ‘hard hat’ diving in the late nineteenth century, using copper helmets screwed on to heavy collar plates. As it was so difficult to force a reluctant and very frightened aboriginal into one of the suits, Japanese divers were brought in. It was a desperately dangerous operation due to the lack of sophistication in the equipment, and to the strong currents where the oysters thrived in numbers. It is alleged that one in three divers lost their lives on their first dive. Why did they do it? The young Japanese men had grown up hearing how the fearless Samurai won great honour through tackling dangerous missions and this was the sub-aqua equivalent. A pearl diver wearing neoprene and equipped with scuba gear collected the last commercially-farmed wild pearl oysters in 1970. Since then, only a minimum number of oysters to act as hosts for cultured pearls are allowed to be harvested annually by a few licensed operators of these farms. Broome is now the producer of 80% of the world’s largest and best-quality pearls.  

We had another fascinating talk from the manager of Willie Creek pearl farm on the methods they use for cultivation and he showed us the two main types of shells used in production of their South Sea cultured pearls. One is silver-lipped and produces silvery-white pearls. The other is gold-lipped and produces golden-coloured pearls. The man opened a live oyster and showed us its internal organs – plus a little passenger in the form of a ‘pea crab’. These tiny crabs live in most of the oyster shells and, in return for the crumbs from the oyster’s table, they do the cleaning. I won’t go through the whole delicate operation of seeding a pearl, but I will tell you that they are grown in a part of the oyster that would make a man’s eyes water!

After the talk and a cup of tea with ‘damper’ (bread made using only flour, sugar and beer – although I think the beer is an option to the more usual water) we went for a little trip around the creek to look at some of the wildlife and to see some oyster shells in their growing racks. We also spotted lovely Brahminy kites, with wingspans up to 1.3 metres, and a sleepy crocodile who didn’t move a toenail when we parked our boat just feet away to gawp at him. Our tour guide explained the sign we had seen earlier, that said “Camping for a maximum of three days only”. He said that they reckon this is how long it takes for a crocodile to catch the scent and work out where the humans are. I thought it would be just my luck to come across a really smart crocodile.

The main farm is well out to sea, in the fast-flowing currents they need in order to feed well and thrive. The shells also need to be kept free of barnacles, sponges, and all other external hangers-on, so teams of backpackers are employed to go out on boats for two weeks at a time with no sight of land so that they can pull up the racks (or “council flats for oysters” as the manager called them), take out each shell, and give it a good scraping with a tool resembling a meat cleaver. Tough work, especially when the sea is up, but these folks earn good money. Unfortunately, only people under the age of 30 can work in Australia, otherwise I would have had Alan on one of these boats before you could say “Go shopping, Bev”.

There was an option to go for a scenic ride in a Robinson helicopter, but we chose to save our cash and anyway, I don’t think anything could top the seaplane experience in the Whitsundays a couple of years ago. On returning to the town, we moved straight into the second part of our tour, which was about the pearl diving side of the industry. We saw lots of old diving gear and Alan was in seventh heaven. I think he remembered using some of it :O)

21^st Jul – As always, our last day of an extended stay (which has been amounting to four or five days maximum) is dedicated to admin. First job, the washing. Then the shopping. Mind you, shopping here is not like a chore. I love looking at all the different things that I don’t see back home. Oh, you can still buy Omo washing powder here – I think that has disappeared from shops back home? Alan has given up on accompanying me because he likes shopping to be logical, following a list. Normally I do, too, but the need to look at all this new stuff sends me wandering about like some of the people we see on family days out in Milton Keynes shopping centre. Sad! Alan did join me for a stroll out to the back of the mall where the food shop was sited and, oh, bitter-sweet realisation – the airport adjoins the rear car park! All those picnics we could have had here, but now we are about to leave. Just think if you could have this back home, Big Bros – you would never complain about taking Joan or Phyllis or Mari to the shops :o)

As this will be our last taste of the ocean before we reach Darwin in about three weeks’ time, all being well, we will spend the rest of the day at Cable Beach, stopping to watch the sun go down. We haven’t done that for...oh, since yesterday!

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