So I survived my first real wild camp without incident. Real feral Beryl stuff although I was initially a bit edgy as I was bit too near the road for my liking, but securely hidden in the bushes, with the bike covered by my trusty camo tarp, so it was OK.
It was very different from camping at a free spot where camping is tolerated. I think I was worried that somebody might find me and take exception to my presence or wonder what I was up to, but there was nobody around, and once I got over that, it became easier.
I’m quite tuned into my presence from the perspective of others. How would you feel if you saw somebody rockup on a bike, go into the bushes and set up camp very near to your village or property? You might wonder what they were up to and get edgy yourself, esp if wild camping is not done round there. So I was very careful about not being seen, found the campspot , sussed out where to put the swag and the bike, then left, returning with about half an hour’s daylight left, set it all up and then camped.
As darkness fell, I had to concentrate and not imagine bush noises were monsters or weirdos. But then I have wild camped in Dagestan and Chechnya, Russia and Mongolia, and it worked out then, so there was no reason why it wouldn’t be OK here. And once I came to terms with that, things were easier. Listening to the birds squabbling over the best perch for the night, various small animals scratching around and perhaps thinking ‘ blimey, where did that come from? Wasn’t here last night’ as they came across my swag and bike. It was really peaceful with the breeze rattling the leaves and twigs falling to the ground, the silence from lack of human activity.
Evenso, and although I slept, I did wake frequently, partly because I’m not very good at sleeping anyway, but also because of the unfamiliarity. It was very dark too, partly because of the leaf ceiling but also because there was no moon.
The birds woke me at about 0600, yelling and shouting about the new day that was about to unfurl. It was still dark and I lay in my swag watching as the darkness gradually withdrew, and was replaced by pale grey light and finally, warm orange tones and shadows as the sun rose.
I made some brekkie before I got going too. It always tastes good when you cook outside.
I spent many years working shifts, awake at different times from most people and I’ve always liked the intimacy of night as well as that special time of early morning. And how lucky am I now to be able to experience both without having to work or be somewhere?
I'm up in the Barossa Valley now, northeast of Adelaide. A big wine producing area, home of many well known names.
And yes, it really is a creek. Still. The winery is just to the left.
When I rode back towards Angaston I stopped for coffee. As I did so, the man watering the town plants stopped to chat about bikes, travel and just being able to enjoy that sort of thing. Another conversation in passing that set me up for the day.
The cemetery up the road was open so in I went and rode around, reading about the people who had once lived there. Some great names too.
These people must have had a hard life setting up a new place and cultivating the land but many lived to ripe old ages. Yet despite that, many had chosen to put money into opulent headstones, something they’d never see.
Maybe it was fashion, perhaps custom, or even approved recognition of a worthy life, but I’ve never really got that whole marker thing. But I guess times were different back then and leaving something tangible behind was the thing to do.
When in Angaston, I’d overheard a conversation between several coffee drinking women about foreigners, reinforcing national stereotypes as they did; whinging poms, drunken Irish, rude Chinese, stupid Italians, houmourless Germans. It made me smile because here we all were, sitting in one of the newest immigrant communities in the world, in a town set up by poms, in an area rich from the efforts of Germans, drinking Italian coffee opposite a Chinese restaurant, and with daughters who had benefitted from that mix moaning and grumbling and being self righteous about the very things they were verbalising. Ooohhh, the irony! All intelligent respectable looking women, yet parochial and small town small people, masquerading as women of the world. Funny.
No comments:
Post a Comment