Almost at the Top End

After a brief one-nighter at Musgrave Roadhouse we travelled north passing through several bush

 

Bush fire aftermath

 fires, through the small town of Coen, then decided rather than going straight for the Top, to detour to have a look at the coastal mining town of Weipa where Sandra had heard there were spectacular sunsets – a pretty good reason for a 300k side trip. With the only real camping option being the local caravan park we managed to bag ourself a seafront site – provided it was only for the one night – that suited us fine. We pitched our tent between a middle aged couple whose vehicle we had to have moved as it was on our small but well marked out site, and a dysfunctional family, the father of which was having control problems and the mother of which disappeared for the hours around bedtime, apparently to go to work but I suspect to seek refuge in the pub. One night only definitely suited us.

Weipa - a glass of wine at sunset, croc warning sign behind

Mind you the site location was very good – right on the beach and Sandra was right, the sunset was spectacular as witnessed by dozens of people queuing up to photograph it. As usual in this part of the world entering the water was a big no-no, unless you wanted to meet one of the reptilian residents.

Weipa Sunset

After our one night it was back onto the Old Telegraph Road (but not the bad bit – honest!) with a picnic lunch on the banks of the Wenlock River at Moreton Telegraph Station – where we spotted an interesting sign. High in the trees, many metres above the river below, was a notice stating that someone had been at that level in a boat during the floods of 2003 – now that was impressive.

The river was this high in 2003

Ever northwards and bypassing the spectacular Fruit Bat and Eliot/Twin Falls – we'll get them on our return journey – we made for the Jardine River and the ferry. In times gone by, when travellers were a hardier race and couldn't afford the extortionate ferry toll, real men (and women) would cross the river in their 4WDs braving crocs and flooded engines. At least so I am told by Sandra's sister Gill who made that journey a quarter of a century ago. We of course would have done the same however, mindful of the Honda's limited off-road capabilities, we wimped out and paid $129 for the ferry.

The road north so far had been pretty good – a bit rough and corrugated at times but no worse than I experienced coming across the Gulf and with a lot less creek and river crossings. However, once over the ferry, the roads deteriorated significantly with bigger, longer corrugations and hidden potholes and dust traps. Apparently a couple of cars a day have to be rescued and camper trailers are particularly vulnerable, we saw one being loaded onto a tow truck as we passed a notorious pothole. However, with my careful driving and Sandra reminding me constantly to slow down, we made it with no mishaps. The only issue now was where to camp?

There are quite a few camp-sites in the Cape area, both commercial and free, bush camping, with all of them having mixed reviews – where we could find a review that was. Our final choice was pure serendipity and we are camping on Alau Beach just down from the Aboriginal settlement of Umagico. Our tent is literally just a few feet from a lovely beach with spectacular sea views across to the islands in the Torres Strait. One of my first jobs after pitching the tent was to give myself a wash as I had changed colour! I was covered in red dust and my face and hair had a peculiar red tinge that is not quite captured in the photograph.

Redder than it looks

 

The beach is glorious however the usual precautions apply. One of our fellow campers left out a crab pot overnight near the rocks just in front of our tent. The following morning the crab pot was found mangled and ripped to shreds with the bait removed – a bit close for comfort we thought. However it may have not been a crocodile as both bull sharks and tiger sharks are apparently very common in the area. Consequently, although we walk along the beach, we tend to avoid putting our toes in the water.

View from tent



"Is it or isn't it?"

It's a hard life

Alone on the beach

Footsteps

Yesterday we were planning a trip to the very northernmost tip of mainland Australia, however that well know meteorological phenomenon, the Douglas Effect - came into play. It started to rain – and this is the dry season. We decided to wait a few days before setting out for the Tip – mind you we may have to wait a while as the heavens opened last night and everything is a bit soggy at the moment. Whilst I would be disappointed not to get to the Tip, I will be even more disappointed to hear that the roads south are impassable as we are about 1000k north of Cairns – and most of those are on dirt roads.

Tomorrow we are giving driving a miss and are taking a boat over to Thursday Island and Horn Island for a look around.

Caves, toxic slag, excellent hosts and girls in bikinis

After my pleasant interlude at Cobbold Gorge I hit the road again ever eastwards towards Cairns. I back-tracked to the (very) small railway town of Forsayth, on to Einasleigh, then to Mount Surprise for a very welcome fill of fuel (I was starting to get worried) and, finding internet access, I posted my Cobbold Gorge blog. Having made good time I decided not to go straight to Cairns but detoured 150 or so kilometres over a pretty rough little road to the small town of Chillagoe where I camped at the Eco Park for one night.

The next day I hit the tourist trail visiting the excellent tourist centre then on to one of the things the area is famous for – the caves. Not wanting to pay for a full tour, I opted for the free do-it-yourself job. I realised very quickly the reason there were no tours of these particular caves was they were too bloody dangerous and the National Park people were not keen on losing Grey Nomads down bottomless pits. The entrance to the first cave – I was the only foolhardy visitor – was an almost sheer clamber down a rock face into a dark forbidding hole. Losing my foothold and falling a few feet, cutting my hand in the process, I rather shamefacedly decided to give the cave a miss – potholing never was my forte! I moved on to the less daunting “Balancing Rock” - a tall rock pinnacle balanced precariously on top on another rock pinnacle – quite impressive and a lot less scary than going underground by yourself.

Wouldn't catch me going down that hole all by myself

Balancing Rock

Chillagoe appears to be a normal, small country town – but hides a dark secret. Just a kilometre or so outwith town is a slag heap consisting of over 1,000,000 tons of industrial spoil including various heavy metals, asbestos and a range of industrial toxins. This is the site of the Chillagoe Smelter, a vast industrial complex which smelted a range of ores, including copper and gold, which were brought in for processing by a network of railway lines. Over a hundred years ago Chillagoe was the industrial powerhouse of north Queensland providing both direct and indirect employment. Surprisingly in all its years of operation it never returned a profit but never-the-less was of enormous importance in the development of this part of Australia.

The vast smelter site

A million tons of heavy metals and toxic waste

 

Chillagoe's claim to fame nowdays seems to be mainly tourism however mining, of a completely different type, is now having an impact. Driving into town I noticed hundreds of strange, large, square blocks of whitish stone littering the countryside – this was marble. Marble quarrying started in 1982 and, at that time, was transported to Italy for processing. I'm assuming that processing is now done somewhere in Australia.

The new industry - marble quarrying

The impressive pub in Chillagoe

I was planning to arrive in Cairns on Saturday and decided to re-visit the trendy little township of Kuranda which Sandra and I stayed at some 15-20 years ago. Passing through the large town of Mareeba I arrived at Karunda and parked up in the centre of town and went for a walk. Within minutes of arrival, fighting through hoards of Japanese tourists on bus tours, I knew I did not want to spend the night there. A quick trip round the market stalls – the whole town is full of markets – and I set off for Cairns a day early.

Kuranda - all market stalls and Japanese bus tours. No thanks

Unbeknown to Sandra, who thought she was flying up to Cairns from Sydney and would be staying in a tent, I had arranged alternative accommodation. I had been in touch with Gary and Kim, a couple we had met in the East McDonnell Ranges near Alice Springs and who lived in Cairns, and they had offered us accommodation in what turned out to be their very swish home with swimming pool and spectacular mountain views. Arriving a day early I decided to check into a commercial campsite and went up the coast to Palm Cove. Being right on the seafront the campsite was both very windy and very full and I moved onto site number two – Cool Waters, which being inland I thought would be less congested – Wrong!

Cool Waters campsite - packed in like sardines. No thanks

I was offered three sites – a concrete slab next to a caravan, underneath the washing lines and a sliver of grass hardly big enough for my tent – I took the latter, even though it was only feet from a major, and very noisy, road. The site, which was pretty small, was jammed with caravans – over 170 I was told. I can see no pleasure what-so-ever being cheek by jowl with other caravaners, sometimes for weeks on end – when camping I prefer to get away from the masses rather than to huddle together in a group – still, each to their own.

The following day, Saturday, I checked in with Gary and Kim then picked up Sandra at the airport. Telling her, as darkness fell, that we now had to start looking for a campsite she was not overly happy but cheered up when she discovered that she had a proper bed under a proper roof for the night instead of our tent. Our hosts were very accommodating and made us feel very welcome and a few bottles of red wine, not to mention Gary's excellent home brewed beer, were consumed.

Kim and Gary - our excellent hosts in Cairns. Thanks guys

 

On Sunday Sandra and I visited the Botanic Gardens then went for a stroll along the busy promenade where there was some good opportunities to photo a helicopter which provided trips across the bay for tourists. My hand must have been a bit unsteady as in one of the photos I missed the helicopter altogether!

Cairns - a good place to photograph helicopters!

The camera slipped and the helicopter is just out of shot!

Cairns seemed to have grown and developed a lot since we first visited almost 20 years ago and in that respect it is very like Darwin.

After two days it was time to give up the luxury of a comfortable bed and crisp white sheets and get back on the road again – this time travelling north towards Cape York. After re-provisioning our first stop was in Mareeba where we visited the local parks department who have introduced a new on-line booking system for camping in the National Parks. Before setting out you have to go on-line and state where and when you intend to camp, and then pay up-front for your camping. A high tech solution which has a number of massive flaws. We, and I suspect a lot of other people, tend to be very flexible travellers – often setting out in the morning aiming for one place and ending up somewhere completely different, making this sort of system useless. Secondly, road conditions and attractions along the way often mean that you don't manage to do the distance you originally planned and never get to the site you have paid for in advance. Thirdly, and most tellingly, an on-line booking system in an area where there is very limited internet access is not very helpful, particularly when we were told in the Tourist Office that the system is incompatible with i-Pads and i-Phones.

There are alternatives – you can phone ahead to book – a fat lot of good when there is hardly any phone access, particularly for the like of us using cut-price AldiMobile which was OK in Sydney but has been almost non-existent throughout rural Australia.

Moaning rant over!

Aboriginal Art has by-and-large left me underwhelmed, however the site at Split Rock was a cut above what I had seen before and was very interesting – as was the Cultural Centre at the small town of Laura which had a lot of well presented information on both Aboriginal and White history of life in the area.

Interesting Aboriginal Art at Split Rock, far north Queensland

As I type this we are camping at the Musgrave Roadhouse before travelling north. We are now on to dirt roads again which so far have been absolutely no problem although, with the Honda being a bit lightweight in the 4WD and suspension departments, we are planning to give the Old Telegraph Road a miss this time. It is an unmaintained track and we have heard it is even hairier than it was when we were last on it about 15 years ago – at least that is the plan at the moment – but who knows?!

Cobbold Gorge

I'm not sure what impressed me the most – Cobbold Gorge itself or the very impressive and obviously expensive infrastructure that the private owners, the Terry family, have recently put in place. I have been to quite a few cattle stations which have diversified to bring in the tourist dollar, but nothing quite like Cobbold. There was a range of accommodation options from individual rooms, huts and suites down to the more lowly unpowered campsites populated by yours truly. If the campsite itself was no more than very good, the facilities were amazing – excellent and brand new toilets and showers which have yet to suffer the ageing of wear and tear. And I have never, ever been to what was effectively a bush camping site where bathmats and towels have been provided – and all for $13 a night.

The bar and restaurant offered excellent meals with reasonably priced drink provided from a half outside, half inside decked area overlooking the dam, where at night the local wildlife came down to drink. But perhaps most impressive of all was the infinity swimming pool overlooking the dam with, believe it or not, a swim up bar – the only one in outback Queensland.

The bar / restaurant at Cobbold Gorge

The swimming pool with swim up bar

Another unbelievable fact was that Cobbold Gorge was only “discovered” in 1992. Having been privately owned for over a century none of the previous owners had ever gone beyond the swimming hole at the end of the gorge - a boat would have been needed as the gorge cannot be explored on foot. Aborigines avoided the gorge as it was seen as an evil place to be avoided at all cost.

Unfortunately there is no public access to the gorge and to visit you have to go as part of a tour group. So I paid my $79 and joined a party of geriatrics for the three hour guided tour. We set off on an enormous 4WD bus, crossing the sandy bottom of the dry Robertson River, for the short journey to the gorge.

The Robertson River

 

Parking the bus in an obviously new terminus building, we wended our way down a metal boardwalk to start the tour. Emphasis on the first part of the tour was on “bush tucker” and it was enlightening to know that, if we were Aborigines, our short walk would be akin to a trip round your local supermarket. I even tried some of the food – not particularly pleasant, although it paid to be careful, as to have eaten even one of the bright red “gidgee gidgee” berries would have led to death in three days. Aboriginal women used to take small doses of these berries as they acted as a contraceptive – how the hell they found this to be the case is beyond me. Trial and error?!

Then on to the gorge itself.

The very narrow gorge from above

A Cobbold Gorge Selfie

Cobbold Gorge is relatively young and, at only 10,000 years old, can be considered a mere infant as far as gorges go. Because it is so young it hasn't suffered the erosion of its elders and consequently is very narrow, so much so that it is particularly difficult to navigate by boat. We set forth in an aluminium punt powered by a silent electric motor, but with the gorge in some places being only about six feet wide it was a tight squeeze and Steve, our guide, on several occasions asked people at the front to help navigate by pushing us off the gorge sides. As with other gorge trips certain rock formations have been identified as looking like human personalities or perhaps animals, and Cobbold Gorge was no exception. However when Steve pointed out that we were coming up to “Duck” rock most people were having difficulty spotting the resemblance to a duck – although one or two managed to get their imagination into overdrive and could see the bird in question. However the reference to “duck” was not a bird but an instruction – to avoid being hit by an overhanging rock formation !

Cobbold Gorge

More of the gorge

Although several kilometres long the navigable section – in our punts – was only about 500m (it would have been great to have done it by canoe and gone even further) but with the gorge being so narrow there was no way to turn around, This problem was solved by having an engine at both ends so, instead of having to turn, Steve merely changed ends and started up the other motor.

And still more

The trip back, in almost complete silence, was magical with the dying rays of the sun casting amazing shadows and the light contrasts were quite staggering – so much so I wished that I hadn't let Sandra go off to Sydney with the good camera as my snaps don't really do justice to the scene. The other silent feature of the trip were the crocs which basked silently and statue-like in the dying sun. So motionless that Steven reckoned that he would have to come out before the next tour and change their batteries as tourists were disappointed by their lack of action!



One of the gorge inhabitants

 

A good trip.

Calvert River to Georgetown - Incident Free !!

After a good night's sleep by the Calvert River, unmolested by either crocs or my next door neighbour, I emerged to face the dawn only to find said neighbour squatting outside my tent smoking a cigarette, opening his first beer of the day and muttering to himself. It's bad enough talking to himself but when he started answering? - a bit spooky! I packed up quickly.

None spotted

Calvert River crossing

Passing the sign telling me to watch out for crocs and crossing the river, I headed for the Queensland border about 70k away with my next stop being for fuel at the curiously named Hells Gate Roadhouse with its “international airport”. Hearing my Scottish accent the woman behind the counter gave me her Scottish accent story (I was the only customer so there was no hurry) She had worked at a hospital with a nurse who had a broad West Coast / Highland accent who had difficulty making herself understood to the locals. The more misunderstood she was, the broader her accent became until at last she lapsed into a “foreign language” - Gaels everywhere!

Hells Gate Roadhouse

Hells Gate International Airport - the plane was parked over the road

The road was long, bleak and empty with often the only signs of life being crows and birds of prey feasting on road kill, of which there was a lot – usually kangaroos and wallabies with the odd wild pig and occasional cow thrown in for good measure.

Bleak, dry country

Road Kill - glad it wasn't me that hit this one

 

Arriving in Burketown at 1.40pm I decided to head to the pub for lunch only to be told that they stopped serving at 2pm and I'd missed it. Luckily, and just before I started to remonstrate with the staff, I realised that I had crossed time zones – I was now out of Northern Territory time and into Queensland time – which was half an hour ahead. There was a sign up in the bar restricting sales of beer to a maximum of two cases of beer per person per day and there was a queue of Aboriginals with hands full of money picking up their maximum and heading off goodness knows where in beaten 4WDs. I had to go over the road to a cafe for something to eat.

I had planned to stay in Burketown but decided to push on to Normanton some 220k further east. The road was still empty, with girls on motorbikes and nudists conspicuous by their absence – however I did come across a young floozy sitting suggestively under a tree looking for a lift – unfortunately I was going in the wrong direction, so young Mary had to wait for another more accommodating traveller.

Unfortunately I was going the wrong way to give her a lift!

 

I like Normanton and I set up camp in the same caravan park in the centre of the town that Sandra and I stayed in four years previously. It was pretty packed with caravans and camper trailers but, as with most campsites we have been to, tents were few and far between and I was able to get a secluded pitch in an out of the way corner. One of the reasons I like this site is that it is only a stones throw from my spiritual home in Normanton – the Purple Pub. So called because – it is painted purple!

The aptly named "Purple Pub"

Saturday night was Karaoke night and I went along to listen to the local talent – of which there were only two. One was a very small Aboriginal man wearing an enormous hat, the other was a large white woman in a floral dress which may have once been a curtain. The audience of three, including myself, were hard put to generate much of an atmosphere. Mind you Sunday night was marginally worse as I was the only customer. It was strange standing on the verandah overlooking the main street having a drink in total silence. At one point a truck drew up outside and, as the driver made his way to the pub we had a brief conversation. I would say I understood about ten percent of what he said to me and, as far as communication in the other direction was concerned, I might as well have been speaking Gaelic. As he disappeared into the pub I think he said he was going in for a “couple of roadies”. He emerged a few minutes later carrying a plastic bag, presumably containing his “roadies” - which I took to be a few beers to drink on the road – but I may have been mistaken.

In between my trips to the Purple Pub I did the rounds of Normanton taking a photo of “Krys of the Savannah” a replica, standing in the main street, of the largest crocodile ever recorded. Shot a few miles away on the Norman River, Krys was over 8 metres long (28 feet and 8 inches) and weighed in at an impressive 2 tons (allegedly!?) I also popped up to the seaside fishing town of Karumba some 70k to the north and and had a very pleasant half day just wandering about.

"Krys of the Savannah" - scale reproduction of largest croc ever shot

The Norman River - where Krys was bagged

Then it was back on the road following the Savannah Way heading for Cairns, stopping briefly at the historic mining town of Croydon with its Heritage Precinct and its self guided town walk. It also has an excellent visitor centre. The countryside was very dry with few of the creeks having any water. What was obviously in wetter times a large body of water, the Gilbert River, was a vast expanse of sand looking like Morecambe Bay when the tide is out. This was followed by an extraordinary sight – a factory chimney standing all by itself in the bush – obviously the site of something, but what?

A "selfie" at the view point overlooking Croydon

The lonely Cumberland Chimney

The mighty Gilbert River flowing empty

Then eventually on to my stopping place for the night – the attractive and well kept little town of Georgetown, where I set up house in The Goldfields Caravan Park which was being managed by a young American couple. A quick trip round the town revealed an interesting little snippet – the local Masonic Lodge was attractively built of grey corrugated iron and was named after a famous Scot – the Sir William Wallace Lodge. Just what the story was I haven't a clue.

The "Sir William Wallace" Masonic Lodge in Georgetown

 

Not bothering to cook I decided to eat out and was directed to the curiously named Wenaru Hotel – so called as for years there hadn't been a pub there and the locals were always asking “When are you going to build a pub” - and when they did, that's what they called it. At least that's what the woman in the tourist office told me. After my steak, mashed potatoes, pumpkin, peas, beans, broccoli and carrots served with chips, gravy and a schooner of XXXX (I'm glad I opted for the small portion!) I staggered off to my tent which I have taken to putting up without the flysheet – unfortunately it rained last night!

Fantasy, Fantasy and a Pesky Neighbour

It's funny how things work out – one minute Sandra and I are about to set off across the Gulf Country for the 2,700k trip to Cairns; the next she is on a plane back to Sydney leaving me to do the trip by myself.

The Sydney trip was for several reasons but I suspect the real one was Sandra was missing her grandchildren and couldn't resist an opportunity to see them, if only for a few days. She set off on the 1.15am flight from Darwin to Brisbane, then picked up a flight to Sydney with the intention of staying for ten days then flying up to Cairns where I will be waiting to whisk her off back to her tent. There we will re-group and resupply before heading north, probably towards Cooktown.

I should have realised that Sandra was getting a bit broody about the kids as, when Gill's friend Vickie appeared at the house a few days ago with an orphaned kangaroo Sandra immediately adopted it – a grandchild substitute?

Sandra with the orphan

Keeping a firm hold of the tail - it had just escaped!

With Sandra safely aboard the Tiger Airways flight I headed back to Humpty Doo, grabbed a few hours sleep then packed up and hit the road. Although I had ten days for the trip, I wanted to arrive in Cairns at least one, if not two days, in advance of Sandra to get a suitable camp set up – I also wanted to allow myself a couple of days for sight seeing on the way, which gave me six days travelling time. Therefore I needed to do around 450k a day, much of which would be on dirt roads.

The first uneventful leg took me to Mataranka where I camped at Elsey National Park. Next up was the Roper River Road which was the source of much angst four years ago when we were seriously bogged down in some very serious crocodile country. I had however promised Sandra not to go off the main dirt roads and only to go to “proper” campsites – and I really did mean to keep my promise – honestly!

This time around the road was relatively benign with none of the mud of our last trip. Although there was the usual rough surface, corrugations and bull dust, the only water hazards were the creek crossings. Having crossed one creek I was slightly caught out after short distance with what I thought was a shallow puddle – it wasn't – a fact I realised when a bow wave of brown water came over the car bonnet! Even the road to Port Roper appeared to be open as a new sign had been erected – I was very tempted to give it a shot for old times sake but, remembering my promise to Sandra, I gave it a miss.

It was deeper than it looks

Smart new signs for Port Roper - wonder if the road has been resurrected?

Looking for somewhere to stay for the second night I stumbled upon Lorella Springs. It was a long way off the beaten track – in fact the track was very un-beaten – and a number of gates had to be negotiated. I'm not sure if I was elated or disappointed when I finally made it to Lorella Springs – the photo probably says it all! Lorella Springs also sold the most expensive petrol of the trip so far – an eye-watering $3.00 per litre!

It could only happen to me!

 

Day three saw me having brunch at the Heartbreak Hotel at Cape Crawford before re-joining a sealed road for the 100k or so to Borroroola where I intended to park myself for the night. The attraction of Borroroola is all in the name – the reality didn't entice me, so I set off towards the Queensland border about 300k away. I didn't really think I would get there before nightfall – and I didn't.

It was back to a dirt road, bull dust, corrugations plus the odd bush fire – and creek crossings, lots of them. Whilst most of the creek crossing were little more than a bit of a splash, one or two were a lot more significant and I would not like to have been crossing them in a two wheel drive car – never mind a motorbike!

The odd bush fire

Yet another creek crossing

At this point I would like to take you back to my lustful teenage years to a film called “Girl on a Motorcycle” which will be forever etched in my memory – not for the storyline as I can't remember a thing about it – but for Marianne Faithful (or someone of that ilk) sexily poured into motorbike leathers and riding big motorbike (just hold that image for a moment!)
 

A big crossing

Arriving at yet another creek crossing I noticed a motorbike marooned on a small island to one side of the crossing. Not wanting to swamp the cyclist with my bow wave, I stopped to allow them to continue – however, they dismounted and obviously wanted me to go first, which I did, with no real drama. I thought I'd better wait to see that they managed to make it and, as I walked back to the waters edge, they started to cross but half way over foundered as the engine cut out. Dismounted in midstream and unable to push the bike across I suggested I throw them a rope to pull them out. At this point the current got to be too much - the bike started to topple and there was a cry for help. Debating for only the merest second or two whether I should take my shoes off to keep them dry, I threw caution to the winds and waded in – shoes, socks and all – and managed to get to the bike before it and rider were totally submerged. When stable but still in the water with two of us holding up the bike, the rider removed their helmet to reveal it was a girl – that is when I had my “Girl on a Motorcycle Moment” (although I'm sure when Sandra eventually reads this, she will refer to it as another “Dirty Old Man Moment”)

"Girl on a Motor Cycle" - after having been dragged out of the river

 

Good Bye Bernadette

This was Bernadette, a nurse, who had been working for the past ten months with Aborigines in a community in the Tamani Desert and was now making her way back to Innisfail in Queensland – and she was exhausted. We eventually got her bike started again and off she went. I met up with her about 20k later, she had just successfully crossed yet another creek, but was giving up for the night and was going to bush camp at the side of the road. I didn't feel too bad leaving her when I noticed a few more people bush camping in the area.

I pushed on for another 40k or so and as I type this I am in my tent bushcamping by the Calvert River, which I will need to cross tomorrow. Luckily my camp is raised above the water so there shouldn't be any trouble with crocs – and I'm not daft enough to go out for a moonlight swim. Mind you, I have other things to worry about closer to hand as I am not the only one camped here – there is a resident mad man!

In addition to myself, there are two couples camping in the near vicinity plus this single guy who, although he is probably just lonely or has mental health problems, insists on attaching himself to anyone who will listen to his rantings. When no-one is prepared to listen, he walks around the site ranting to himself. It would be quite amusing, not to mention sad, however as I type there is a full moon and I can hear mutterings outside my tent and I'm not too sympathetic towards him at the moment – I hope the bugger doesn't have an axe!
 

That's him on the left

Good Night.