All change

So after Gordon’s departure, I had some stuff to do. I had all of his gear, plus his bike and a ute, and there was no way I could carry all of that on my bike. I mean, he’d carried some clutter but even he hadn’t reached that level of luggage.

So before he left for the airport, he helped me load his bike on the back of the ute and tie it down.  Its only a small bike but unlike my van and small bike in the UK there was no way I could have got this little bike onto the tray without help; its just too high. Then he went,and it it was me on my jack.

This trip has been going for four months, and has had its pitfalls. There were four of us initially, then three, then Nadine had to go back to work, making two. Now that Gordon has also  cleared off, I’ve turned into the lone rider in a bad remake of The Waltons, except instead of saying goodnight to people, I’m saying goodbye. But I I keep saying that travel is made by getting round the problems that arise, and the longer this one goes on, the more my resilience develops.

My plan was to drive back east to the Central Coast, give Nadine the ute and get her to stash the bike too, either until I could sell it, or decide what to do with it. Fortunately, she needs a vehicle and this one is ideal, so it was win win. But what to do with his gear? He told me to bin it but that was a non starter; it was too good for that. So I decided to go via our storage unit in Port Macquarie and leave it there.

It was about 1400kms, or three days drive. The people at the campsite were lovely and said I could leave my bike and panniers in a shed until I returned. So having sorted everything into keep, store, bin piles, I loaded up and left. One of the blokes at the campsite is an ex truckie who used to drive that route, so he gave me a few pointers and places to avoid, and off I went.

I didn't want to retrace if I could help it, so I took the road to Pinnaroo, Ouyen, Manangatang, ( Manangatang - who the hell thought that one up?)Tooleybuc and stopped at a rest stop at Balranald for the night. I slept in the ute cab, a bit cramped and rather cold, but cheaper than a motel. 

I  started off a bit creepily though because I saw a billboard advert for Wolf Creek 2, a scary tale of a man wandering the outback, preying on travellers. A true story and the culprit has never been caught, and I was convinced he was watching me from across the highway.   

My eyes were bloody sore though probably due to dust and me stabbing myself in the left eye with the arm of my glasses as I put them on. Soppy tart; I rarely wear them and only put them on because my eyes were aching from the constant driving. 

There are plenty of free camping spots all over Australia, but like anything, you have to be careful. There was a caravan parked up for the night at this one, so I felt ok, although it was pretty noisy, being on a road train route. Those things do thunder along , making the ground shake and the vegetation quiver in the wind that they whip up.

The following morning, I was up and ready to roll early. I didn't want to drive at dawn because that’s when the animals are about, and I really didnt need a roo or a wombat planted in the radiator or an emu through the windscreen, so I left at about 0900.

Much of Australia is flat. Very flat, and this bit of it was flatter than flat, boringly flat in fact. The Hay Plain. It was a bit like being adrift in a small boat on a calm sea. Nothing above the horizon at all for 360 degrees, no features, no clouds, few birds, no tress, the odd bush, nobody about, apart from every so often when roadtrains appeared, usually in twos or threes, lined up into the distance, and then passing by within seconds, slipping westwards into the nothingness.

I was very conscious of being the only person for miles around, just me and a few roos all going about our business under huge open skies. And its easy to see how accidents happen on such open flat road. Sudden swerving to avoid a jumping roo, a micro sleep that sends you veering or just lack of concentration than pitches  you off to the side or rolls you. Seemingly innocuous, its easy to come a cropper out there. But I love it, the brutal isolation of that desert scrub.

A few galahs were about - they are everywhere, squarking and showing off - and the odd emu punctuated the skyline but that was all, and even they couldnt be bothered to run.

But you know what? Although I there was alone out there, it suddenly became a very crowded place when I stopped for a wee. Cars, trucks and even a farmer in his plane came by, tooting and waving. And the farmer came back for a second look, waving at me from about 60m.

At Hay, I took a wrong turn, difficult to do in a town of just a few streets, but I still managed it. But I sorted that out fairly quickly and found the correct road to West Wyalong and Dubbo. 

Fuel is a big consideration and it's vital not to pass on opportunities to fill up. I’ve got used to that on the bike, but I have to consciously remember in the ute a it has a 70 litre tank. So I use the half full point as my reminder, filling up as near to that as I can. And thats how I ended up spending an hour in the hotel at West Wyalong, drinking lemon lime bitters and watching horse racing with the locals, after stopping at the local bowser. 

I say locals, but  whilst they might have lived nearby, they were all Irish and Scottish, with me as the Pom element, and the two Aussies as the rank outsiders. It was a a good hour, and a good morale boost for me; I’d grown a bit fed up chatting to myself and singing as I drove, although that was probably best on the singing front.

A bad ass  bike gang was parked outside when I arrived, Harleys all lined up outside, engines pinging and chrome sparkling in the sunshine, looking mean and menacing. How good would it have been to park my tatty old postie bike in amongst them, a dog amongst hogs. But mine would have won the greatest distance compo.

The riders were inside eating lunch, a collection of spritely old Bruce Springsteens, enjoying their passion, and clad in black and orange cut off denim jackets which their wives had obviously washed and ironed before they left home that morning. The Banditos briefly looked up from their chicken tikkas to call a cheery ‘oi oi’  when I walked through the door before getting back to their tucker.  And they waved when they left.

The road continued up through Forbes, then Parkes and the telescope in the distance, looming off the horizon like a huge metal mushroom, then Dubbo, where I filled up again. Dusk was approaching but I didn’t want to stay in Dubbo overnight, so I pressed on to Dunedoo and a truck stop where I slept under a very bright sky filled by millions of stars.

Truck stops are not great because truckies get up early, then play with their compression brakes. No, not a euphemism, and yes I know they have to do it, but it is quite disconcerting to be ‘ psssshtt’ awake. But the trade off is that they know the road, and there is usually a loo and a place for breakfast nearby, and lo and behold, so there was. A Vietnamese cafe with the most disinterested and rude staff, but good food. It always surprises me when people treat their customers like enemies. In my world, customers buy their goods and keep shops in business, but apparenty not where these blokes live.They were dreadful and it was amusing to see the shocked look on new customers’ faces as they were baracked for having the  temerity to offer them money in exchange for goods.

Dunedoo marks a change of landscape, a place where the boing old flat changes to greener mountain scenery,  welcome after the past few days. The roads wind too, and as it was a Sunday, the bikes were out enjoying the twisties.

My route took me through Gunnedah, a town about which Nadine and I had once had a weird conversation about passports and visas because I’d though she’d said Canada rather than Gunnadah. A nice little country town, and not far from Tamworth, where I stopped to buy headache pills and a toothbrush.

We’d been through Tamworth about six weeks ago to the music festival. That was all gone of course but more noticeably was the burnt ginger grass, which is now lush and verdant. Surprising what a bit of the old rain can do.

Climbing up out of Tamworth and up onto the Great dividing range, it becomes very alpine, leaving behind a great plain with odd protrusions that look like giant ant hills. From the lookout at Moonbi, you can see right across them, so as I was making good time, I stopped there. 

And that’s where I met Warren, a local brickie, and three young brothers he was minding for the day, Sean, Thai and Latrelle ( sorry, not sure of the spelling guys!) 

I stayed and chatted to them for about an hour, and shared their picnic. One of the best things about moving around is the people you meet and I’ve met some really lovely folks all over the place. Just good honest folk who want to chat and are kind and generous and interesting. And I hope that by way of return, they get something from me; tales of places I’ve been, things I’ve done, and affirmation that actually, wherever we come from in the world, we’re all essentially the same.

After Moonbi, I kept going, through Walcha  ( where I had planned to stop before I discovered the Moonbi lookout) to Wauchope and Port Macquarie. Coming down over the mountains and rainforest, it was quite misty so there wasn’t much to see. But that was ok because I was driving.

I have really noticed the difference between being on a bike and in a vehicle in the past few weeks though. Yes there is the obvious extra stability, carrying capacity, greater speed to cover more kms, a dry place to sleep and increased fuel usage, oh and the luxury of a radio, but you know what? Despite all of that, I prefer being on my bike. 

I love being out in the elements, the smells, the bumps, the dust and sand. I love being able to stop and pull over anywhere with ease without causing a pile up or worrying about soft edges, fines, ditches and passing space. I love being able to go back and look at something I’ve just ridden past, turning round in my seat to take pictures, and I love the way people come up and chat because they want to know what the hell I’m up to on a small bike with next to nothing, miles from anywhere. I’ve missed that so much over the  last month, and although I’m sure there will be times when I rue not having the advantage of a four wheeled vehicle, I know this is the right way for me to travel right now.

Oh dear

Things have changed of late, and not for the better. Following Gordon's crash, it became very difficult to continue as we had planned and various differing needs emerged.

As a result, Gordon has returned to the Uk for a while, I have stayed put. I intend continuing travelling westwards as planned on my postie, but not before I have taken the ute to Nadine in Sydney.

So no blog for a while. I need to adjust and sort myself out. It's quite a peculiar feeling to be on the otherside of the world not knowing anybody. So from now on, everyday means new people and new faces, nothing familiar,  but that's ok. I'm good at talking to people and finding my way so I'll just get on with it and see how it goes. I might even get the blog up and running sooner than I think!

Please keep an eye out for updates. There will be some, just not sure when. 

TTFN

Short wet day today

Well last night’s rain continued all night and right through today. 

Proper shedding it down and the same is forecast for tomorrow. Funny how just two days ago we were sizzleing in 43 degrees of super dry super heat, but just 300 kms down the track, its as wet as it can be. Its that bad that even I haven’t even thought to venture out on my postie.

I always thought it was Brits who talked about the weather.....but these Aussies are even worse,their favourite topic, real moanathons, complete with yearly seasonal comparisons, laments about the need for rain, and general whinging about the heat. Yet here we are, two poms living out of our vehicle, with very little personal gear ( except for Gordon who has heaps of stuff) just getting on with it. People of Australia - you live in a hot place; deal with it or move to New Zealand.

We had a few jobs to do this morning, like re rego-ing the ute. Its a bit different here but essentially rego equates to MOT, and is done yearly. But annoyingly, it varies from state to state and you’re supposed to get it done in your home state. As our ute is from NSW and the rego expires in early March, and we’re heading towards South and Western Australia, we had to get it done today. But people are pretty helpful and we were pointed in the right direction, got it sorted, paid the $39.00 fee and we were on our way to Mildura.

Its only about 30 kms from Wentworth to Mildura, and the original plan was for me to show Gordon around the town where I used to live, and for us to camp nearby. But the weather stuffed that idea, so we booked into a motel that a truckie told us about in Broken Hill, and here we are.

We did have a bit of an explore around town but were soaked within minutes.

I also got the ute stuck in some claymud and had to push it out while Gordon steered ( and grumbled) but at least we now know how far we can venture  off road in it. My postie would have coped OK.

But you know what? I was chatting to this man this afternoon, and he told me he’d been in Australia since 1971. Yet his English was appalling; really really bad, and I had trouble understanding him.  Heavily accented and very limited vocabulary. Why is it that people who move countries think its OK not to learn at least some of the language and ways? Forty three years and all he could manage was poor and broken English. Not on at all. At least have the decency to learn the basics of communication; hello, goodbye, please thank you etc. It is so disrespectful to the host nation, and something that I’ve also come across many times in the UK. By all means retain your own culture but understand that the world does not revolve around just you.

Got to get a new map today. Big hole in this one.

Three days in Broken Hill

I’m liking this Broken Hill place. I’ve been here before, years ago and its sort of familiar -ish. But I can't actually remember anything except the mine stuff.  It's also eyeball scorchingly hot too but the hostel has a small pool which is a great way to cool off.

The Royal Flying Doctor Service has a base here, and we popped into see them, have a look around and say ‘thanks’ following Gordon’s little mishap.

I didn’t realise that they were linked to the regular ambos, but apparently they are, and they were quite excited when they heard what had happened and asked us back to a presentation thing the next day. 

Then we went to Silverton, a town 20kms from BH and famous as the film set for the Mad Max 1&2. 

Once a thriving community, there are now just a handful of people living there, two poms from Bradford ( Adrian and Linda)who run the Mad Max Museum.

Adrian started the museum several years ago and its a real shrine to the film with pictures, cars, and memorabilia. It is so quirky and really is worth a visit of you just happen to be tipping past Silverton and have a need to be amazed.

And then there's the donkey which hangs around the pub.

He’s about 35 years old and recently lost his mate who fell into the tip and injured itself so badly that it had to be shot. Poor thing. 

Some of the Mad Max stuff was filmed just down the road at Mundi Mundi Plain, which has such a great name that we had to visit.... despite it being Tuesday Tuesday. Sorry, that was terrible but the joke had to be made.

So the RFDS presentation then; it was the Reverend Flynn’s desk which had been presented to the museum. He was the bloke who started it all, so it was quite an important artifact. ABCTV and BH radio were there, and we were interviewed on both, which was quite amusing. Really nice people and  nice to be able to thank them for helping us.

I had assumed that it was always hot in Broken Hill and indeed it is, only not this hot. Its been over 40º for the last three weeks and its overpowering. Even when the sun starts to cool after midday, there is no respite because although it stops scorching your head, heat then starts getting released from the concrete and tarmac and sizzles your legs. And that of course, zaps your energy and puts you off doing things.

But we persevered, wandering into The Palace Hotel where Priscilla, Queen of the Desert was part filmed, 

an art gallery which had some good stuff in it but even better air conditioning, and a museum where the prize exhibit is a silver tree, made out of one nugget of silver found at BH.

It also had various minerals and stuff on display with quite good explanations, but the best of all was a cheeky little offering called Cummingtonite. What? Well done naming it after Mr Cumming, but come on; cummingtonite? Please!

Broken Hill is a city built on mining, and its got ( had) one of the biggest lodes every, anywhere, a lode being the ore deposit. And its tin, lead, iron and other stuff here. 

But Silver is the thing, hence the various associated references - Argent Street ( argent being french and latin for silver of course) Silver City Highway, Blende Street, Tin Pan Alley. No,ok, I made the last one up, but you get the idea.

And they’ve preserved the heritage very well, with various things dotted around town.

But for a mining city, it is also surprisingly arty, with lots of galleries dotted about as well as artists’ studios. I don’t mind going to the odd one ( particularly when its cool inside) but they’re not really my thing. Nor are museums, but photo galleries, yes. However, despite meaning to, I never got to any in Broken Hill although I did manage to see some open collections of stuff.

About 10kms outside the city are twelve statues, carved from imported sandstone and  placed on an outcrop overlooking the city and the desert. They’re quite stark and I’m sure impressive to some, only not to me. However, having seen them in the mid afternoon heat, I went back at sunrise this morning to capture the golden light as it rose over the horizon. I’m glad I made the effort too; absolute silence, still air, and long shadows. A really special time of day but one that is mostly missed by all.

Look at the shadow and hole made by my helmet; matches the sculpture!

Finally.......

Bloody hell.........finally we’re back on the road. Might be on four wheels, but that’s just details.

Actually, neither of us were sure whether Gordon would be able to sit for any length of time, let alone over dirt roads, so I came up with an ace plan ( well, I thought it was ace). We planned to leave Cobar about lunchtime on Saturday and head for Bourke along the highway, so I suggested an early morning trip out to Mount Grenfell, the aboriginal rock art place that I’d ridden to a few days before. Its only 65 kms from Cobar, but more importantly, half on sealed road, the other half on pretty rough dirt track, and if he could survive the 130 kms round trip, he’d be OK for Bourke.

I did keep a careful eye on him though...

And he survived, which was just as well because there wasn’t really any alternative, and off we went at lunchtime. Yahoo.

And he's got a great black eye. The bruising on his arse is even better but he won't let me photograph that....

We bought a ramp and some tie downs before we left Cobar and both bikes fit onto the tray beautifully. 

Gordon’s will stay on the back until he’d OK to ride, but I need to get mine on and off so that I can ride each day. Whilst I’m happy to drive all day, I need to ride my bike; that’s what I came here to do and even a crash won’t stop me, especially as it wasn’t even my crash.

But anyway, Bourke was pretty much as expected: isolated, hot, dusty and tatty. But cool in an odd sort of way, the start of the outback proper, and a bit frontier-ish. 

There were several signs along the highway for the Outback Fishing challenge. The what? Its so bloody dry out here and there is no water in any of the creeks and only a very little bit in the Darling, so I dont know what they catch. Maybe dried fish or something. Actually its probably something to do with catching non native fish, but I like the dried fish idea better.

Then we got asked if we were pig baiting. Pig baiting? What? Apparently you ride through the scrub with bits of meat , chucking it out and enticing wild pigs to follow, while somebody in the ute follows and shoots them. So no, we’re not pig baiting mate, just driving through the outback with two postie bikes on way to Adelaide.

Bourke used to be a major port, on the Darling River, served by paddleboas, and dealing in cattle, sheep, and wool. It’s not now, but the trappings are still there, including a bridge that has now been bypassed and preserved as a historical monument. Its a vertical lift bridge, where the middle bit winds up to let paddleboats through.

And there were loads of cockatoos in the trees by the river. As the evening drew on,there must have been about a 1000 setting up home for the night in the trees. And the din factor was something else. Cockatoos are not the quietest of birds anyway, but a thousand of them together in the trees - beyond noisy.

So as Gordon had clearly survived the ride to Bourke, next day, we headed for White Cliffs via Wilcannia along the dirt road, all 350 kms of it. It was pretty rough but good enough and the ute coped well. 

It was a bit skiddy at times when the sand got deep but I just kept the speed steady and let it go where it wanted, guiding it to keep it on the main track.

Its like driving in snow, no jerky or sudden movements, constant speed and just keep going. Not that easy on a bike of course, yet I would still  ride that road, even now I know what the surface is like.

There are two very small settlements along it between Bourke and Wilcannia, Louth and Tilpa, and it would have taken much longer of course and would have been tough but its definitely do able.

We stopped briefly in Wilcannia for fuel. Its a town that was clearly once quite successful but has seen better days. 

The bloke in the petrol station ( two pumps down a back street) had lived here all his life and reckoned that the police have now got things under control (Wilcannia has a bit of a reputation as being rough) and said that the National Parks were partly to blame because the buy up land round the place and effectively kill it as nobody can then farm it. Mind you, he then said that the young folk don’t want to work it anyway, so its a sort of catch 22. And nobody shops there anymore because its expensive and most people can drive for a couple of hours and bulk buy in bigger towns like Cobar and Broken Hill. Same story the world over, and down to changing patterns of trade, demand and supply I guess.

Not many people about either, just a few dogs and this emu.

So, on to White Cliffs then, and  a sealed road which was quite a novelty after a whole day on the dirt. 

White Cliffs is famous as the previous centre of Opal mining out here, semi precious stones that had their heyday in the late 1800s. People still live and mine out there but nowhere near on as big a scale as they once did.

Its a really odd place though because as you approach, it looks like a collection of sheds in the middle of the desert, which essentially, it is. But then upon closer inspection, little caves in the hillside become evident, dugouts. These were where many of the old pioneer miners lived, having scraped shelter from the sun out by hand. Even today, you can buy one and just extend it as you wish, digging out rooms as will, but usually with a drill these days. There is a school there too - with just five pupils, but rather disappointingly, that's above ground.

And the school of the air - which is all around here and which as a kid I found a fascinating concept - is now high tech. Apparently, they have screens and teacher and pupils can see each other, and the books and work is all downloads. No more special delivery parcels at the beginning of each term.

There are several underground hotels constructed this way so we had to stay in one of them overnight. 

There is also a  solar power station in White Cliffs, several rows of what look like satellite dishes but they are actually parabolic solar panels which concentrate the suns rays and turn it into power which sorts out about half the demand. Again, it looks pretty surreal out there in the desert, surrounded by nothing but a few sheds and scrub.

After White cliffs, we drove to Broken Hill via Wilcannia and sealed roads. The dirt road looked inviting but the fuel place was shut in white Cliffs and I wasn’t sure if we’d make it all the way, so I opted for the shorter route. 

Plus I thought I’d be a bit kinder to Gordon who is actually finding it harder than he lets on. Its much easier to sleep on a smooth surface than dirt. Him that is, not me....

Broken Hill is, as the brochures say, smack bang in the middle of nowhere, nearer to Adelaide than Sydney although its still in NSW, and half an hour behind the rest of the state, operating on Central (South Australia, NT time) rather than eastern standard time. But half an hour? Come on, whats all that about? A full hour maybe, but half an hour is literally a half arsed effort.

This place is famous for silver, which in the early days was mistaken for tin until somebody realised. Its actually got one of the biggest silver deposits in the world and is sometimes known as Silver City. There’s still much mining going on here and evidence of it is all around, with bare hillsides, old machinery now turned into heritage stuff. And some great street names - Sulphide Street, Oxide Street and the catchy Bromide Street.

We’re planning on staying here for a few days as we have some stuff to do, like mend Gordon’s bike ( we bought most of the bits yesterday) change the chain and sprockets on my bike, do some washing, and repack what we have so that we can find things. It got chucked in the ute and there is currently no system to anything, so a bit of sorting needs to be done. And we’ll have a good look around.