"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.