Sydney to London Marathon

On the way to our campsite at Aroona in the remote northern part of the Flinders National Park we came upon a very strange sign which indicated that the road would be closed on Friday for the running of the Sydney to London Marathon. This seemed very unlikely as maathons are usually run over 26 miles not 26,000 kilometres! However eventually all became clear – it was a car rally.

That's one hell of a run!

The once very popular London to Sydney Rally was last run in 2004 and some motoring enthusiasts had decided to run a tenth anniversary race – with two differences. Firstly it was to be run in the opposite direction starting in Sydney. Secondly, instead of using modern cars it was to be a historical rally with cars of previous generations. When I saw the cars my mind was instantly taken back to my old friend Dick Atkinson who unfortunately died nearly thirty years ago. Dick was a bit of a car fiend and very much into rallying – I remember discussing with him the merits of various cars and his insistence that he would prefer a Ford Escort RS1800 rather than a Ferrari as it would handle the Snowman Rally better.

I think this was one of the Mercs

Hitting the water at speed - a Ford Mustang?

 

Dick would have been in heaven last Friday (come to think of it he probably was) the cars were exactly for his era. There was a Datsun 260Z, two Datsuns 240Z, a trio of Porche 211's, three Ford Mustangs one of which had a 6.6litre engine, some old Volvos and of course a number of Dick's RS Ford Escorts in both 1600 and 1800 version.

One of the Datsuns?

We got a good vantage point above probably the only water crossing on this stage of the rally and were treated to plenty of roaring and splashing as the cars made their way to the end of the Australian leg of the rally several thousands of kilometres away in Perth.

What happened next was in my opinion just bad luck although Sandra claims it was my fault for driving tooo fast. When the rally cars had cleared this left the rally stage empty and, probably in true Atkinson fashion, I couldn't resist having a shot. I must make this very clear, I did not speed, nor was I reckless – it was just an unfortunate coincidence that one of my almost brand new Cooper tyres suffered catastrophic stone damage and had to be replaced. As luck would have it the nearest place I could get a new tyre was in the small town of Hawker over 100k away. So my short career as a rally driver cost me $200 for a new tyre, half a tank of petrol and of course earache from a critical Sandra.

We then spent another couple of days mooching around the Flinders and are preparing to depart for the slightly more remote Gammon Ranges then onto the Oodnadatta Track. Internet access is likely to become scarcer as we travel north.

Sandra in a big gum tree

Aboriginal Art - I was a bit underwhelmed

On viewing platform at Wilpena Pound

And on to The Flinders Ranges

In our travels we have passed through numerous small Australian country towns – many with indifference, some with a feeling of “No, this one's not for us” and some with a feeling of “Yes, there's something about this place we like”. Melrose fell very much into the latter category and not because it has the same name as a small town in the Scottish Borders that we also like. There wasn't much to the town – just a couple of pubs, a few shops and cafes, a bowling club and one of the most interesting museums we have visited which kept us engrossed for a whole afternoon. We were camping at the Melrose Showground a couple of kilometres out of town. The following week it would have been packed as it was to host the South Australia Land Rover show and the week after there would have been 2-3000 people supporting the local football team called Booleroo Melrose Wilmington – but when we were there it was almost deserted with only half a dozen campervans and us in a vast area in which for us to get lost.

The pub in Melrose

Drinking in the pub in Melrose

Just up the road was a working dog training school run by a husband and wife team – Ben and Lyn Page – who trained Kelpies and Border Collies to work mainly as sheep dogs. As they were having an open day demonstration we paid our $15 each and were entertained by tales of Ben's life as a corporate magnate who retired from flying a desk and reverted to a former life of working with stock and training dogs. His dog training school is apparently internationally famous with students attending from all over the world. His dog handling skills were amazing – as were his dogs who effortlessly controlled and manoeuvred the small flock of demonstration sheep. Mind you I was not alone in thinking that the best trained creature at the demonstration was not one of the dogs but his wife Lyn who jumped to his every command!

Ben using a rake to keep the dog from attacking the sheep!

Stretch, Johann and Sandra watching sheep

After a couple of nights at Melrose it was time to head north towards what was to be one of the highlights for Johann – The Flinders Ranges, which she has always wanted to visit. Sandra and I had spent about a week in the Flinders during our 2010 trip although most of the time seemed to have been spent sheltering from the rain or travelling through a sodden landscape, so a visit in better weather might show it up in a better light. After a trip to Port Augusta, the last substantial town we will see for some time, to pick up supplies and get new tyres for me and a new battery for Stretch, we set off towards Hawker.

That night we found ourselves camping in Willow Springs Gorge on the 11,000 acres sheep station that had been run by five generations of the McInness family. Mind you we almost didn't get there. Arriving at the entrance to what we thought was a free campsite (we are from Scotland after all) we discovered an unwelcome sign – Camping by Permit Only. With no mobile phone access to call the number at the bottom of the notice Sandra and I were detailed to drive several kilometres back up the track to a house which we thought might be the land owner's. Arriving we found the place deserted – we rang the bell, knocked on doors and shouted but no-one appeared. With light fading and Johann and Stretch waiting down the road for us we decided to leave a note and just camp anyway. When I returned from sticking the note to the back door an interesting sight met my eyes – Sandra was being attacked by a large pink pig! We did find out later it was a family pet which was allowed to roam at will and was very friendly – but Sandra wasn't convinced.

On the way to The Flinders

Willow Springs was about 75k from the Flinders and we decided to use it as a base to explore the National Park. Whilst Johann and Stretch went for a walk in the Park, Sandra and I drove around looking to see if there might be suitable campsites within the park so we didn't have to make the 150k round trip every day from Willow Springs. The park is big – almost 100,000 hectares and it took us most of the day to drive round the campsites. Initially we thought that we were best staying where we were as the site by the creek in Willow Springs Gorge was pretty good - until we stumbled upon Aroona, one of the more remote sites in the park. It had good sites by a dry creek bed, ideally situated for a number of walks, beautiful views, a water supply and good, long-drop toilets – no more disappearing over the nearest hill with toilet paper and a shovel!

The Flinders Ranges

Some residents of The Flinders making friends with Sandra

This resident wasn't quite so lucky!

Unfortunately we had lost track of time and I realised we were not going to make it back to Willow Springs before nightfall and would have to navigate in the dark. I also soon realised that we had another problem – the thirsty little Honda had just about finished its tank load of petrol and didn't have enough to get home. Luckily I had a spare can of petrol on the roof and stopped to top up – then two things happened. Firstly, Sandra looked up at where the full moon should have been and could only see a sliver – it was in total eclipse, at point which she went into ecstasy with her camera. Secondly, as she was being ecstatic, I discovered the spare petrolcan was faulty and was pouring more petrol over and the ground than into the tank (it has now been replaced) So, smelling of petrol and enthralled by the earth's shadow drifting across the full moon, we finally limped home where Johann had a welcome meal waiting.

The Eclipse

We are now ensconced at the very agreeable Aroona and have had a day exploring the Flinders. The highlight for visitors to this part of the Flinders is Wilpena Pound where two mountain ranges form an enormous bowl enclosing a vast plain with only one entrance through a gorge. We made the fairly easy walk to the old Wills' Homestead before clambering up to a view point to get a spectacular view of the Pound where a century ago the Wills family had tried, largely unsuccessfully, to rear sheep and grow wheat – the elements were against them.

We are likely to stay in this part of the Flinders for several more days before moving further north.

 

PS I wrote the above some days ago, As I type this PS I have just bought my FIFTH tyre!

"Perfect Peter" in Soakin' Hill

As most people who know me will testify I strive to get things right and very rarely make mistakes – in fact I am pretty near perfect. However there are occasions, which I like to think are exceptions that prove the rule, when I have been known to stray from the path of perfection. One of these rare occasions was they day before we left Pamamaroo Lake and I would obviously have kept quiet about it if Sandra had not threatened to write her own expose.

Our tent has six main guy ropes, however these can pose a trip hazard particularly at the side of the tent that we tend to use for cooking. Therefore, to get them out of trip range, I had started to park the car next to the tent and, instead of pegging two of the guys to the ground, had instead attached them to the car roof rack. I had lectured myself on several occasions that, when driving the car away from the tent, I should ALWAYS untie the guy ropes first. The thought of driving away with the tent attached to the car and it being wrecked in the process was so appalling that obviously there was no way I could do such a stupid thing. Alert readers will have no trouble guessing what is coming next!

Len and Liz, who two days before had got bogged down on the way to the lake, were about to leave and I offered to follow them back to a sealed road to ensure they did not bog down again. Len seemed to be in a bit of a hurry to get off so I hot-footed it to the Honda, undid the rubbish bag attached to the wing mirror, unhooked the solar panel attached to the secondary battery and set of in hot pursuit – totally forgetting that the tent was tied to the car. I heard a couple of whipcord like snaps and Stretch yelling for me to stop – but it was too late, the damage had been done. When I returned I got a whole lot of sarky comments from Sandra calling me “Perfect Peter” as we set about repairing the damage.

The final day by the lake was otherwise peaceful and uneventful. Sandra and I went out onto the lake in a rubber dingy towed by Johann in a canoe. She then tied us to one of the semi-submerged trees and left us to read our books whilst being tormented by the omni-present flies. Fortunately there was no repetition of the previous day's shenanigans as both girls managed to keep their clothes on!

She didn't know what was worse - the flies or the boat sinking beneath her

A final "selfie" at Lake Pamamaroo

The next day we “did” Kinchega National Park – before heading back to Broken Hill. The National Park was interesting with two things standing out – the first highlighting mans' stupidity, the second the surrealness of the internet.

Back in the days when paddle steamers travelled the Darling River they were subject to the vagaries of the weather and, when the rain didn't fall and the river was running too low for the paddle steamers to negotiate the river, they had to tie up wherever they were and wait for the water to rise. One such steamer was on the stretch if river we were passing and, it having been a period of drought, had been stuck there for a year along with its crew. Stuck for such a long time can have an adverse impact on the brain - as can an overdose of alcohol. After a night in the Menindee pub the Captain and crew returned to the ship and, no doubt through drink, decided to head for home, a year stranded was a year too long. They stoked up the boiler and started to get up a head of steam intending to head for home – unfortunately they neglected to fill the boiler with water and all six were killed in the explosion. Over a century later the remains of the boiler can still be seen beside the Darling River.

Don't drink and drive - all that is left of the paddle steamer

Later, whilst walking through a strange and sad little graveyard with no marked graves and no known occupants, I met a fellow visitor whose accent seemed familiar. I asked her where she came from and she said North of Inverness. Pressing her for more precise details – and suggesting Dingwall, Alness, Invergordon she said she was from the Black Isle – in fact from Fortrose. Sandra then came on the scene and mentioned that one of her co-stitchers of the Great Tapestry of Scotland came from Fortrose and still had a property there called Rose Cottage.


Some time later, at the famous Kinchega Wool Shed, at which over six million sheep had been divested of their wool, we came across the same woman again – this time she was on the internet Googling “Rose Cottage Fortrose” to try to identify where Sandra's friend's house was. Given the remoteness of the location, not to mention it being on the other side of the world, it all felt somewhat bizarre.

Trying out the sheep shearing equipment at the Kinchega Wool Shed

Back to Broken Hill. When we initially arrived a week ago the streets were running with water. Broken Hill is one of those places where the sun always shines, the sky is always blue and it never rains – except it seems when the Douglases are in town. When we arrived back to spend a few days exploring Broken Hill and booked into the Broken Hill Tourist Park – the weather arrived and it poured. Still, we tried to do the sites.

The IKEA umbrellas were supposed to protect us from the intense sun

Dominating the town is a slag heap – a monument to over a century of mining. We traipsed up to the top of the slag heap, complete with waterproofs, winter woollies and umbrellas to the impressive visitor centre. Unfortunately nobody had told us it had closed down. Back down in the town we cruised the streets looking for wet weather activities and settled for an art gallery. Lunch was in the “Alfresco Cafe” in the main street. As the name suggests we ate outside on the pavement where the storm drains were having difficulty coping with the rain water and passing cars were revelling in tidal-waving innocent tourists sitting in pavement cafes - Johann had had to wade to get to lunch. As ever alcohol went some way to making light of the situation.

Alfresco living in Broken Hill - bloody rain!

I am sure that Broken Hill has a lot going for it and is really a nice place where it doesn't rain all the time – however I am indebted to my son Jon for his suggestion that “Broken Hill” should be renamed “Soakin' Hill”

We are now heading for the Flinders Range in South Australia. Before leaving Broken Hill Sandra and Johann did a shopping to get in supplies for the next week. Unfortunately no-one mentioned to them that it is illegal to take fruit and vegetables from New South Wales into South Australia – something to do with fruitfly. We had lots of tomato rolls and ate lots of apples and bananas, not to mention dumping fruit and veg, before crossing the border – where we were actually searched.

Tonight I am writing this whilst camping near the small town of Melrose which presumably has some connection with its namesake in the Scottish Borders. We will be hitting the town tomorrow.

Desert \sculptures and a Post Apocolyptic campsite

It's amazing what a good nights sleep and a change in the weather can do for ones morale. After the previous days hellish trip through rain and mud we woke up to what is apparently a typical Broken Hill day i.e. sun, warmth and an unbroken blue sky. Also staying in the Old Willyama Motel were friends from Sydney, Liz and Len. Liz was working there for a few days whilst Len had come along for the trip, to see the sights and to play a bit of golf (he got rained off at the 7^th) We were all waiting for Johann and Stretch to arrive then we would spend a few days camping before Liz and Len drove back to Sydney and the rest of us headed west.

We had a busy morning trying to clean up Johann's car before she arrived – throughout our trip of yesterday, as the car became ever more clarted with sticky grey mud, Sandra kept muttering “She'll kill us! She'll kill us”. We also went in search of a new tarpaulin to hopefully keep the kit on top of the car a bit drier should we run into any more rain.

Johann arrived and got settled into an extremely crowded caravan park then in the evening all six of us did one of the “must do” Broken Hill touristy things – we went to watch the sun setting at the Desert Sculpture Park. Several kilometres out of town is a hill upon which are about a dozen sandstone sculptures created by an international team of artists from countries as diverse as Georgia, Mexico, Syria and of course Australia. Viewed as the sun sets the sculptures are amazing as they continually change colour depending on the angle they are viewed from and of course the suns rays. We had opted to climb to the top rather than drive and the best part for me was the walk back down. I walked alone and the peace, solitude and dusk views over the desert were well worth the trip. Dinner in a local hotel then off to bed for a second, and last night in clean sheets before hitting the road again the next day.

Desert Sculpture

The following day we set off south over the road Sandra and I had struggled with two days earlier as we headed for a national park near the town of Menindee. What a difference two days of no rain and sunshine make although there was still evidence of the flooded tarred road which we stopped to take an “after” photograph to go with the “before” in my last posting. However all was not back to normal and we found that the National Park was closed as were several other roads. We eventually found a brilliant campsite beside a lake – but not without further incident.

The main road 48 hours later

We were now a convoy - our Honda CRV, Stretch and Johann in a Toyota Landcruiser towing an Ultimate Off Road trailer and Liz and Len in their little Mazda 3 and in this latter lay the problem. Whilst I am sue the Mazda is an admirable wee car it is probably best kept on city streets and well off wet dirt roads. After a few k's into looking for somewhere to camp the inevitable happened. The Landcruiser was leading with Len following in the Mazda with its two wheel drive, low clearance and low profile tyres and I was bringing up the rear – therefore with a grandstand view of events unfolding. The road was wettish but probably OK if one kept to the crown and away from the glutinous red mud which occasionally appeared at the edges. Without the traction of the Landcruiser the Mazda was not able to hold the road and a slightly misjudged route ended a slow, slippery slide into the mud – totally bogged down.

Stretch pulling Len out of the mire

Things then descended into typical gender stereotyping – the women, deciding it was time for lunch, set to making sandwiches and tea – whilst Stretch and I were left to get Len out of the mud. Luckily my tow rope was accessible so Stretch unhooked the trailer and we eventually hauled the Mazda backwards out of the mire. Len was rescued without even getting his feet muddy! We decided to move on at this point as a mob of camels appeared over the horizon and started making their way towards us with unknown intent.

Our "post apocalyptic" view from the campsite

The campsite was on a lake shore with a quite surreal view. The dead trunks and branches of hundreds of trees stood out of the water looking like some sort of “post apocalyptic” (thanks Jon) nightmare – well the “Mad Max” films were shot not too far away. We have been lazing about here for a few days with the only fly in the ointment, so to speak, being the flies which are being particularly annoying and everyone is competing for the limited supply of fly nets.

The crew about to embark

The highlight of the stay so far (for me at least) was Sandra and Johann canoeing on the lake and stripping off as nature intended for a frolic and cavort. As they were about 100 metres off shore they thought they were relatively safe as they posed for long distance photographs – unfortunately they didn't seem to realise that my camera, with its 120 x zoom was quite capable of extreme close ups – even at 100 metres! Probably not for the blog though!

The Long and Winding Road - or was it a River?

I knew things weren't going well when I noticed the car was going sideways and then backwards as we slid our way north through the rain sodden landscape on the road from Pooncarie to Menindee. Luckily we had re-organised the loading of the Honda so that all the heavy gear was low down and the lighter stuff on top - our lower centre of gravity probably preventing us from ending up-side-down in the ditch. And this was just the beginning of the journey!

After meandering slowly through Victoria we were on our way to rendezvous with Johann and Stretch at Broken Hill. Travelling through, and briefly stopping at, the pleasant small country towns of Swan Hill, Mildura and Wentworth – all of which were ports on the Murray River. Wentworth was of particular significance as this is where two of Australia's great iconic rivers – the Murray and the Darling – meet. The Murray – Darling system flows over 3,700 kilometres from Queensland to the sea, much of this was navigable by paddle steamer and was of immense importance in opening up the interior of Australia to pastoral development.

Sandra posing in Wentworth (I think)

Where the Murray meets the Darling

The actual point of confluence

Travelling north we arrived at the small town of Pooncarie which had been one of the ports on the Darling River and which, even to this day, is known as The Port. The Darling River at this point is not very attractive with the water being a strange green/milky colour and flowing very sluggishly. One reason for being in this neck of the woods was to visit the Mungo National Park about 80k from Pooncarie. This visit was excellent with some very interesting exhibits detailing life on remote sheep stations.



Is that a lake I see behind you - it was 17,000 years ago

This is also the site of the oldest evidence of human habitation in the world outwith Africa. Remains of a woman dating back over 40,000 years have been found along with remains of a relatively young man of a mere 30,000 years. The stratification of the local “lunettes” or sand dunes has enabled archaeologists and anthropologists to identify the first human cremations known to have taken place. Mind you, I felt that I was conned as I had been led to believe we were heading to an interesting lake complex. To me lakes mean water and it turned out that Lake Mungo and its associated lakes had actually dried out over 17,000 years ago!

After a second night at Pooncarie we, innocently, set forth for Menindee to the north planning to set up camp for the night then explore the Menindee Lakes – which do have water in them – and thus on to Broken Hill the next day. Things started well – we got a fill of petrol at the local garage and a couple of very acceptable bacon and egg rolls for breakfast, then we were on our way. It was 122 kilometres to Menindee but, within the first few minutes, we discovered that only the first couple of kilometres was on tarmac, then it was onto a dirt road. This was no problem and we bowled along at a good speed for the first 50 kilometres – then we hit problems. It had obviously been raining further north and the road surface to a turn for the worse.

The initial incident was largely my own fault as I was happily going along at about 65kph using cruise control when the vehicle started to slide and I realised I had absolutely no traction. Conventional wisdom in such circumstances is get the foot off the accelerator, steer into the skid to bring the car under control and, in no circumstances touch the brakes. I did all this instinctively but the car seemed to be accelerating into the skid. If I had touched the brakes, even momentarily, the cruise control would have cut out and the situation would not have been so serious. However we were now skidding out of control with the engine full on. Luckily all this registered in a split second and I managed to turn off the cruise control manually using the control on the steering wheel – which was a bit difficult to find as I was spinning the wheel like a dervish trying to control the spin. The car came to a halt, still on its four wheels, although now facing in the opposite direction. From there things just got worse! Thinking that this was an unusually slippery bit of road we headed further north and things seemed back to normal – then the rain hit.



The road was abit damp - and worse that it looked

Within minutes the road was a quagmire and for much of the time I had virtually no control of the car. It my admittedly limited knowledge of dirt roads in Australia there are two types of surfaces – a red sandy surface which seems to drain reasonably well, and a had clay-type surface which, when dry, is hard and good to drive on. However, when this latter gets wet it has a thick, sticky, glutinous texture which clogs up the tread in the tyres, fills up the wheel arches and gets everywhere. Much of the road surface on the 60 or so kilometres was of the latter type and driving was a wee bit challenging – to say the least. After the first couple of hours my arms were aching as I was constantly (and I mean constantly) having to turn the steering wheel from one full lock to the other. Progress was slow and in anything but a straight line – much of the time we were sideways on to the road and yet somehow still going forward but terrified to stop. Our biggest fear was sliding completely off the road and being bogged down. This almost happened on numerous occasions but somehow we managed to keep going.
And then the inevitable happened – the wheels kept spinning but we were going nowhere – we had stopped. Luckily I managed to toggle between reverse and forward (not all that easy in an automatic) and eventually got going again. The only relief we had apart from the occasional bit of red dirt, was the occasional cattle grid which had been tarred for a few metres on either side. We stopped on a number of these, partly for a rest and easing of tension, partly to take the odd photograph and also for a toilet stop – we were almost wetting ourselves it was so hair-raising. The pictures we took were not of the most difficult parts – we didn't dare stop for the frivolity of photos.

Eventually, after four hours we rolled into the small town of Menindee which had a particularly bleak appearance in the rain – we decided not to stay after all, camping there was off the agenda – but to press on another 100k or so to Broken Hill on the tarred road. As we drove past flat, bleak moorland it reminded both Sandra and I of the bleak road crossing Campster Moor in Caithness. I'm sure that if the sun was shining it would have been very pleasant – but it wasn't. The previous day in Mungo National Park the temperature was 37C today it was 13C – a country of great contrasts.

On the tarred road we thought our problems were over but we had more to come – the tarred road was flooded in several places but we managed to make it through.

This was the tarred road - a bit iffy I thought

On arrival in Broken Hill we went to the tourist office to find that many roads, including the one that we had just come along, were closed. We had caused considerable damage to the road and were not cheered by the notice which said anyone caught using the road was liable to a fine and to pay restoration costs. We felt guilty and as soon as we could headed for a car wash!

Where's the car wash?

Camping was a no-no – the streets of Broken Hill were awash with water and camping, even on a commercial site, was likely to be unpleasant – so we booked into a Motel for the night and luxuriated in clean sheets, a double bed and toilet and shower.

Dawn Chorus - and The Lotus Eaters

“The Dawn Chorus” - invoking images of small song birds waking to a new day, their melodious notes bringing forth the dawn and slowly awakening mankind to enjoy a new morning. Not in Australia!

On the banks of the Murray River, camping amongst the massive redgums, the Dawn Chorus attacks mankind with a viciousness hard to imagine if one has been brought up on the gentle murmurings of blackbird and thrush. Imagine a herd of one hundred cats – fifty of which simultaneously have their tails stood on by an unforgiving size 14, whilst the other fifty attack each other with uncontrolled ferocity. The ensuing cacophony only goes some way in describing the multi-decibelled impact of the Dawn Chorus Australia Style. The raucousness of the white cockatoos competing with the screeching of a range of different parroty things is certainly a rude wake up call to the new day.

As bird “song” dies down we eventually emerge from the tent to face the new day – and the next assault on our beings – the bush flies! Small, harmless, non-biting insects whose only sin is to swarm over all areas of exposed skin, particularly around ears, nose and eyes and be totally oblivious to all attempts to ward them off. The only solutions are to ignore them (difficult) - stay in the tent and make sure none get in (also difficult) - wear fly-repellant cream (it doesn't work) - or wear a fly mesh (hot, uncomfortable and difficult to read through) Staying inside seems the best option – but eventually calls of nature force one to face ones foes.

Armed with a digging implement, toilet paper and seeking a suitable place to dig a hole is never the best of occupations – and never good whilst accompanied with ones own flying entourage. However things could be worse – and indeed did get worse. A hundred or so flying eyes are bad enough when one is having a squat by the river bank, however it is nothing compared to the mortification felt as ELEVEN Canadian canoes are paddled past with 44 eyes!



When a man's got to go ....... Bloody flies, bloody canoeists

As lunch time rolled round and the thermometer clocked 36C, a light salad was called for. With all food stuffs secured in either the fridge or sealed boxes our lunch was protected from flies and other insect predators – or so we thought! For some unfathomable reason an enormous swarm of tiny ants had decided to take up residence in our plates and cutlery bag and from there some made it into our lunch.

With the light starting to go and the temperature down to a pleasant 28C, the bush flies finally threw in the towel and retired to wherever bush flies retire to at night – it was time to enjoy what was left of the day. Sitting by the Murray with the redgums reflected in the slow flowing river, sipping cold beer and red wine – this was what it was all about, this is why we were in Australia. Two almost simultaneous slaps and the despairing cry of “There's mozzies about!” and it was back in the tent.

And thus was a day the life of the lotus eaters.