Home again, home again jiggety-jig

            The highway through the Pilbara - unusually green after unseasonal rain

Question: What’s fat, has a beard, wears reflective clothing and drives a road train?

Answer: Everybody in the Pilbara!

Well it seems that way! We left Barn Hill and after refuelling at the Sandfire Roadhouse made our way on to Port Hedland. It’s been a few years since I was visiting the town regularly – it was a hive of industrial activity then with all of its iron ore and salt exports but it’s really stepped up a gear now. The road trains run around like Thai tuk-tuks on a Saturday night. It was a pleasure to see the “Thank you for visiting - please call again” sign on the way out. We continued on to the Karratha area but called in to Point Samson in the hope of a safe haven for the night and their famous Fish & Chips. The Cove caravan park was packed (like every other piece of accommodation up here) but we managed a spot with a great ocean view. It was late and the owners said that they did a great Fish & Chips so we said that we’d have two – and we did – and they were very passable fish and chips with a salad thrown in for good measure. Mind you, after driving 700 odd kilometres between us that day, I could have gulped down a mullet-gut sandwich and enjoyed it really. We stayed another day in Point Samson because it was warm and pleasant. I made my traditional pilgrimage to the nearby historic town of Cossack – a town that holds a certain fascination for me and I always seem to gravitate to it whenever I am in the area. It’s a lonely little place but nicely restored.

Carnarvon next – another 700 kilometres of pretty well...nothing. Arid country through those parts. The only excitement occurred when Maurs went to overtake a slower caravan and while moving out, an idiot in souped-up Commodore Ute who had been tailgating us for about 10 km decided he would try a simultaneous manoeuvre. Two vehicles don’t really fit in a single lane but Maurs just managed to slip back behind the van while this guy zoomed past, hopefully towards oblivion.

                                                     The blowholes at Quobba...blowin' hard

We spent a day at the blowholes at Quobba, about 60 kilometres north of Carnarvon, checking out the campsites for another time. The blowholes were blowing so all was right in the world, even if Maurs camera lost power and she had to resort to using my poor old relic instead. It’s terribly civilised there now with a coffee truck parked nearby serving cappuccinos and making a fortune. We also had a magnificent swim in “The Aquarium”, a sheltered bay full of tropical fish, coral, clams etc – just a natural joy. There are some marvellous places in this country.

                              Maurs emerges from the Aquarium - a little James Bond don't you think?

I don’t know who originally thought “Carnarvon looks like desert country; the river is almost always dry; I think I’ll grow tropical fruit and vegetables here!” – but it works magnificently. After being largely fresh produce deprived for the last couple of weeks we hit the local farms with gusto and bought a ton of fresh, tasty stuff. We had plates of vegetables every night, except one. Maurs celebrated her birthday there and I decided that we’d go to a really good seafood restaurant – well that’s what the brochure said. It most decidedly wasn’t. It was an ordinary restaurant – very disappointing but on the returd highway sometimes you turn up gems sometimes you don’t.

                                                 Fresh crab with Carnarvon salads

After decimating the Carnarvon vegetable crop we looked around for our next destination. Unfortunately it was school holiday time and our possible venues of Shark Bay and Kalbarri were both heavily booked by mainstream society. What to do? We decided to head inland and try a station stay at Wooleen Station. Maurs had been there before – it was used for a couple of her survival walks (where she set off with a compass, a teabag and an aspirin and walked 50 or 100 or 200 kilometres with other so inclined individuals – no food – it’s a wonder there wasn’t an outbreak of cannibalism). This time we had food and spent four days there in very pleasant if not sparse surroundings, enjoying the serenity in a bush setting.

                    The country road to Wooleen Station - about 200 kilometres of this stuff

                                              Old wood stove relic at Wooleen Homestead

                                           Lunch in a lonely place - the dry lake at Wooleen

We went out sight-seeing and bird-watching – but not so many birds. Finally she spotted a rather beautiful blue wren in the binoculars and handed it to me for a look. Just as I brought the bird to bear I felt a weird sensation in my legs. I looked down and discovered I was standing over a nest of rather large ants who took exception to my presence. I was covered below the knees in ants and some had started chewing on me. The irish jig that I performed was mildly amusing for Maurs, especially as I dropped my pants halfway through the performance to get the blighters out, but after I had extricated the invaders all she said was “You scared the birds away.” Well pardon me!

                                                           "You scared the birds!!"

Our run of luck with dodging rain finished here. We got a downpour on a sheep station that has resigned itself to never getting rain with the result that all our canvas was wet when we packed for the home stretch. We drove along slippery, muddy country roads, heading for a little town in the northern wheatbelt called Mingenew. The rain system had passed by then and we happily dried out the annex in the afternoon sun and packed it away. Unfortunately after the rain came the fog – heavy fog – which saturated the camper as effectively as rain ever could! So we packed it up wet again and sailed for home. Seems every time we finish an adventure we are destined to end it wet. Such is life on the Returd Highway.

                                        Foggy day at Mingenew (didn't even see it coming!)

          Hitch hiker we found in the camper. We actually got him a ride back home to Wooleen.

Blog Epilogue

Maurs and I set out in February 2012 to search for Australia. Here it is July 2013 and we only found a bit of it. We clocked up 34,000 kilometres in that time and visited all States and Territories except Tassie (we had to keep something in reserve). We also managed sojourns to the USA and Canada, Vietnam and Singapore as side visits just to mix it up a little. The vehicle and camper performed well beyond our expectations and could do it again tomorrow if we asked nicely. What was satisfying for me personally was the fact that we used just about every piece of equipment that we originally packed in the hope that it might be useful, with the exception of one jaffle iron (somehow jaffles didn’t seem appropriate at any stage of the journey). We must have encountered every configuration of camping equipment around from the sublime to the ridiculous but we remain happy with what we have (no big-rig envy around here). We also came into contact with the entire spectrum of people – some wonderful, some dodgy, some German and some abjectly stupid – but all interesting (especially the stupid...and some of the Germans).

Our favourite place that we visited? A lot of people have asked us that and it usually shuts us up completely because there are so many wonderful moments to consider that we can’t judge them one against the other. In summary, our favourite place is Australia – for all of its faults and for all of its natural beauty; for all of its harshness and its gentler moments; for its rip-off merchants and for the sights that no one can charge for; it’s not such a bad place. And some of the gob-smacking stuff  we saw that didn’t even make the blog – like the night we witnessed a Gordian worm emerge from a dying Praying Mantis (google Gordian worms if you have a spare moment, it’s fascinating).

Maybe we will have to go again sometime and see all the stuff we missed on this trip (there’s quite a lot of that) but it won’t be for a while. Shorter trips closer in will be the order in the immediate future for us.

Thanks for following us around too. I hope you enjoyed the e-tour. We loved your feedback and it certainly kept me going when my mind kept telling me “that’s not interesting Gus, that’s just being a travelogue!” Oh, you mean it was just a travelogue after all? So it was.

Barn Hill

                      Barn Hill from the beach (go on, click on the image, it won't bite you!)

It’s a cattle station about 140 kilometres by road from Broome (50 kilometres as the crow flies) and within it lies a caravan park nestled on cliffs overlooking the Indian Ocean: Barn Hill is really quite pretty if not a little on the unsophisticated side. We are camped in the unpowered area meaning we are relying on Vic and Cheryl’s generator for any electricity we may need (we get by on 12 hours a day quite easily). The amenities block is...very airy, to say the least. But at least the toilets flush and if you shower in the afternoon then the coils of black poly pipe lying on the ground will provide warm water (woe betide those who shower late for they are consigned to a cold water, hurried wash – we even overheard a lady [obviously not in the “know”] trying to have a shower at 5.30 in the morning saying to her husband “I’ve tried both taps and they’re both cold!”) You see, this is what you get if you don’t ask questions around the camp – ignorance is no excuse).

                                                          The shower block, Barn Hill

                                                        Loos with views, Barn Hill

We have been blessed with a campsite right on the coastal cliff, much coveted by other campers who become relegated to a spot in the backblocks – it’s a site that you hang on to if you can and we are staying for as long as possible, weather permitting, while the other campers plot and scheme and try to guess when the prime space may become available. And yes, we have been caught up in some unseasonal rain through this part of the world although Barn Hill has fared better than the poor sods down the road in Karratha where 200 mm were dumped on them in 24 hours. We might have got a tenth of that amount. Can’t complain though, this is the first bit of weather that we have seen since leaving the Clare Valley in South Australia at Easter. A bonus from the rain was witnessing a flight of Frigate birds hovering above the shore and taking turns to dive and flutter their wings to shake off the annoying raindrops accumulating on their feathers (be careful we don’t subject you to the movie we took of it next time we see you).

                                                         The Barn Hill campsite

                                                       Sunset from the campsite

We discovered a casualty to our camper, probably from the Gibb River Road experience, but the long plastic tube on the back that carries our tent poles had been jolted loose and was found just hanging on. Repairs were needed lest our tube of tent poles be found lying on the highway next to Kevin’s caravan door (see last episode for further explanation). With Vic’s help and electric drill and another camper’s pop rivet gun we made the necessary repairs, ready to resume the travels safe in the knowledge that there’s a secure home for the tent poles.

                                    A tradesman (Vic) and his mug helper fixing the camper

A lot of people come to Barn Hill year after year to sit out the southern winter so it’s a real community feel down at the powered area, probably like the feel one gets in an old people’s home when one’s special time has come. Everyone says hello whether you want to or not. The beach is beautiful and behind the beach abuts sandstone rock formations with vivid red shades to contrast against the blue sea and white sand. There are a lot of keen fishermen here but we’ve yet to see evidence of many fish (a familiar story). I saw one old bloke simply give up and feed his remaining bait to the grateful seagulls.

                                                             Maurs on the Rocks

                                      The foreshore at Barn Hill (Gus digs a hole for himself)

The other day we decided to visit the Eco Resort that lies up the beach past a few headlands. We didn’t know how far it was – now we do – a 17.4 kilometre round trip, best done at low tide to get around the rocky bits. We had lunch there – all very nice and civilised. Being there though took me back to 2000 when Barry Hanstrum and I were working the cyclone warning centre and we watched on radar as cyclone Rosita blew the whole resort away with Category 5 ferocity, but it has recovered very well.

The first week here we just walked the beach and swam and suntanned but then we had those few days of watching the rain form puddles around us and wondering when it will go away. Well it did go away but was replaced with a blast of easterlies that has been buffeting us and testing the sturdiness of our campers and annexes. I figured it out – this is why people live in HOUSES!!! We have limited internet access here - we must be right on the edge of internet range as it floats in and out – mostly out.

                                                        Victor in repose - on the beach

We have spent 15 days in the warmth of Barn Hill but it’s getting to be July and we need to be back in Perth in order to get off the Returd Highway and back into a more normal existence. I mean, we can’t have fun forever can we? So it’s a compass heading of south soon, leaving our friends Vic and Cheryl to squeeze the last bit of heat into their remaining holiday while we plunge into cooler climes. However, it’s not over til it’s finally over.

And what’s biting me today? Sandflies!!