Tastings

Ivy dropping in

Margaret River is not just a town; it is a region. Alexandra Bridge is a campsite within that region, and whilst we are saving considerably on accommodation costs, we are spending up on diesel as I search for surfable, soft, two to three foot beach breaks, drive Sara from tasting to tasting, and the kids to various skateparks. It fits then, that this blog offers tastings of its own, and is more of a degustation than the usual “all you can eat!”

Fonty's Pool 

Ned at Fonty's

Remember Rex from Bremmer Bay? I was supposed to have a beer with him at the Manjimup pub. I didn't, electing to swim with the kids in Archie Fontanelli's pool! Best part of that was watching Ned take a running leap onto a truck inner tube, and succeeding in diving right through the middle. Manchimup is a timber town. We stood out from the local population not because we drive a Discovery, but because we have all of our fingers and thumbs. Have never seen so many hands with amputated digits in my life. Might be a good place for a hand therapy practice...

In the water, but not getting wet!

Alexandra Bridge

A bush campsite outside of Margaret River as I've said. However it was a beautiful spot beside the Blackwood River. I didn't swim in the river because I get nervous in fresh water. Sara didn't swim in it because she doesn't. The kids however had a ball. The Linton's were here too, and we had five days of gourmet meals cooked over the fire including a lamb roasted on the spit and self saucing chocolate pudding. Combine that with a Moss Bros wine...doing it tough. 

Self sauced sensation

Bob and Lorraine

Bob used to drive trucks (a white Scania tautliner with a red roof). He knows my cousin Ken having chatted with him at different roadhouses between Brisbane and Melbourne. Bob helped me tighten up the screws on the van's toolbox lid. Bob greased the towball and hitch. Lorraine supervised Ned's journal writing, and then took the hairbrush from a gratified Sara and started brushing Ivy's hair. Bob muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “I was wondering how long it'd take before she did that!” No complaints or moans from either kid; great work Lozza.

Bush Tucker Tourists

Check out the guns on the bloke with the spotty hat!

We decided to accept the fact that we are tourists, and enrolled in a Bush Tucker Canoe Tour of the Margaret River. Chris was our guide, a bear of a man with the mouth of a wisecracking chipmunk. He didn't stop. We went up the river and learnt a lot about the indigenous culture, and also the history since white settlement. We went caving, and saw the devastation wrought by the bushfires in November 2011. We ate local and imported Australian fare, and then prepared for the race home. The prize was a bottle of wine. Oli was very fired up. I drew on my experience as an outrigger canoeist, insisting that if nothing else, we all paddle in time. We were doing well too, until a boat full of Poms t-boned us. We recovered, but I cut the final corner too fine and we ran aground. Race over, we held our heads high and put in an official complaint about the English. Chris bribed the kids with snakes and the controversy was buried.

Greed is God

Wine, olives, cheese, chocolate, nougat, nuts, biscuits, muesli, yoghurt, beer, fudge, jam, coulis, tapenade, pasta sauce and pesto. Prue, the olive oil soap factory guide chastised the kids with “Excuse me, this is a tasting, not a banquet!” We ignored Prue.

If there's a tasting on offer, we've abused it. Sara's love of a bargain, or better yet, a freebie has no better place to shine than here. The kids quickly realised toothpicks can spear three pieces of fudge as easily as they can one. Why try one wine when there are eight on offer? The bigger places don't remember you regardless of how many chocolate buttons you can load into a palm, even if you visit three times in 5 days. Oli came into his own as our Chief Financial officer, working out that because 100g of choc buttons cost $5, we and the Linton's have saved over $110 by eating the free stuff!! However the highlight was the sight of Sara using the tester facial scrub to actually wash her face! Prue was not amused.

Surfing, or not...

“Margaret River is Australia's Hawaii”said the chippie from Nunawading who has been here 27 years and knows of Presnells. “But it's not what it used to be...” Whatever it is, or was, it's big, it's reefy, and it's parochial. I was “surfing”at Grunters this morning with Rick, the Floridian web designer from Brisbane I met back in Streaky Bay. The local vet dropped in on Rick without a backward glance. Stand-up paddle board too. Dickhead. Whoever heard of a vet with Celtic tattoos around both biceps? Rick and I got nothing, avoiding being washed onto the rocks while the short, Jetta driving vet took everything. Hope a cat vomits on him.

Oli the Surf Grom

Oli the Grommet (Kelly Slater out of focus, top left)

We timed it well here, arriving for the final day of competition in the Margaret River Pro. Unfortunately as we walked up to the contest, the swell dropped, Kelly Slater had already gone, Occhy (45yr old Aussie) got eliminated from the finals, and we watched two Hawaiians I hadn't heard of surf. Some guy called John John, perhaps a Walton, won with a reverse 360 that Ned is convinced he can do on my mini-mal. As this was going on, Ollie scavenged sunglasses, a beanie, several posters, and walked me into the corporate tent. He fitted in, but I was even more out of my depth than when I spent an afternoon in the Channel 7 box at the Melbourne Cup in 2002. The polo shirts have got to go.

Caravan Parks vs Bush Camps

One has power, water, a laundry, hot showers, no noisy generators, a playground, bbq's, grass, a pool, a gate, is close to town and the owners can advise you as to the local attractions. The other is isolated, and has some greasy, grumpy fellow who charges not very much. Guess which one we prefer. Guess which one the kids prefer. The next fortnight of fancy parks is going to be a real shock, but at least we'll be clean, and we won't see much of the kids... Next stop is Bunbury to meet Joc and Tony, and then backwards to Busselton for Easter with Jen, Jim, Kitty, Billy, and baby Alice.

Karri tree forest

H

PS Hawks up in final quarter vs Pies.  Buddy and Cyril on fire.

Bumbling along the Bibbulum Track

Time to step it up a notch. Kids were getting soft. I felt like I had no more challenges left having finally got the generator running so that our neighbours in Parry Beach didn't think we were a pure Land Rover Discovery / new caravan / glamping stereotype. As the gentle drone of the Honda 2.0 merged with that of the mosquitos, Sara and I devised a devious plan to exhaust our children once and for all. We decided to do an overnight hike on the Bibbulum Track. 12k in, 12 k out. Kids carrying their sleeping bags, mats, clothes and water. That should shut them up a bit.

We told anyone we met we were going away on an overnight hike. We left them with the names and numbers of who to contact in the event we didn't return and were lost in the Tingle forest somewhere. Our wills were brought up to date, and we loaded up the packs with enough food to feed a Plowman for a month. Figured it might just last our mob a day and a half.

Ned and Ivy on the trail

Ivy looking at something very  tall

At 10:15 we were loaded up, and left the treetop walk carpark ready to hike the 12 kilometres to Frankland Hut. The kids flew over the rough ground, ignoring the sword grass as it sliced at their ankles. Ned must have been able to get 400 metres along the path before his shorts fell down. A stop was mandated, and after 25 minutes we slumped to the ground to a frenzy of moans about aching shoulders and hips. Not much changed over the next six hours. At one point we suggested Ned hike in the nude. Ivy stopped every three metres to pick up a rainbow leaf, or to spike bark with her pointy walking stick. El Dithero cruised lethargically at the front, then the middle, then the back of the pack, spouting reams of information about stuff he'd made up, and reciting the lyrics to “White and Nerdy". Sara handed out snake lollies from her never-ending supply bag. I helped raise morale by singing original songs about Tingle trees, which is surely the best name ever given to a knarled, 400 year old, stringy barked eucalypt with a massive butt(ress).

Waterhole at Frankland Hut

When Frankland Hut came into view all bets were off. Like Cyril Rioli on the wing in the 2008 Grand Final, the kids surged to the line. Nathalie was waiting for us. She'd got to the hut three hours earlier. She'd set up her tent and listened to the frogs amidst silence of the forest. She moved her tent further away from the hut within 10 minutes of our arrival. Nathalie is from Belgium and speaks with a disconcerting Euro-American accent. Three years ago she left Belgium to travel for a year. She returned after that time, sold everything, and has been travelling ever since much to the consternation of her friends and family. We learnt a lot about Nathalie. She didn't learn much about us, but did discuss farting with the kids which made her an instant hit.

All the boys had a swim in the river before we ate. The girls stayed on the bank, marveling in their warm clothes at our icy, chiseled physiques. There was no wind, and the tannin stained water reflected the surrounding Tingle and Karri trees. Oli again managed not to get his hair wet. I hate to think what is living inside that blonde mess. Dinner meant I could offload the precooked pasta salad. It disappeared within 7 minutes tops. We'd expected the kids to crash, but they put on one of the best displays of mania I have ever witnessed. The rest of the night was uneventful. We weren't woken by rats or the resident possum, but Ned's snoring snuffles, and the rumbles as he rolled from one end of the hut to the other made for a restless evening.

Lunch stop in Tingle trees

We woke to rain, misting at first, then torrential. Captain Sensible's last minute plan to pack raincoats proved wise. There were more grumbles today also. Ned admitted to feeling miserable, however when Sara finally sorted his clothing malfunction issue out, his and our day changed for the better. We got back to the car in 4 and a ½ hours. Collar bones worn down by straps, and with her hips creaking like Jocy's, Sara almost bought a coffee from a machine. I was able to reverse this foolish notion, and instead we headed to an ordinary bakery in nearby Walpole and made ourselves sick on $60.40c of pies, doughnuts, flavoured milk, and coffee.

All in all, it was a massive success. The kids were champions, and hardly complained unless they had significant justification eg Ned's shorts. They were happy to finish, as were Sara and I, but it won't be difficult to convince them to do it again. A return to our impoverished neighbours at Parry's Beach ($10 per night, $50 per week, 3 week max stay) saw that the Linton's had caught up to us! The generator fired up, the campfire was lit, and as our walking sticks burned we caught up on the minutiae that is life on the road.

H

In formation

Finished

Because they are there...

Rex came over to say goodbye and gave us a card with his phone number and email address. Not that we'll need it. He's in the Manginup pub from 4 on weekdays, and 12 on weekends. Looking forward to catching up over an Emu Bitter, although I swear I saw Rex drinking XXXX Light, not sure what that is about.

We got away early and arrived at the Stirling Ranges. I did the best backing job I have ever done with the van, receiving scant praise for my troubles. The campsite was lovely, and before a stabiliser had hit the gravel, we were met by Eddie the volunteer park ranger who assured us all was well despite the local bush fires and imminent threat to shut the park down due to the high risk of lightening strikes. Turns out Eddie (indeterminate age) has been here as a volunteer for 12 years. He has also been a consultant for stud sheep farms all over Australia, a bird breeder, a farmer, an orchid collector, a roadhouse owner / burger flipper, and I'm sure a lot of other stuff he simply didn't get around to telling us.

Oli and Ned on Toolbranup

We sat around for a while after Eddie left. Sara and I read a bit before it became obvious that there was still some energy left in the camp that would not disappear between now and dinnertime. Oli chose the hardest climb we could do in 3 hours, and so Ned and I decided we'd better accompany him to ensure he didn't do anything more stupid than anything he'd attempt on a normal day. We didn't ask Eddie's advice, but possibly we should have.


                                                                                                                                              Mt. Toolbranup is the second highest peak in the Stirlings after Bluff Knoll, but a harder climb. Ned almost quit 20 minutes in, but a little bit of reverse psychology, and a few squirts of Ventolin created a monster and we summitted in record time. We saw a snake of indeterminant deathliness which gave Toolbranup that extra bit of Bear Grylls flavour.

Top of Bluff Knoll

Ivy and Sara, whilst proud of the achievements of their boys, were certain they could equal them. The next day was rainy. Homework was assaulted. Discrepancies became immediately apparent between the teacher who was more interested in reading John Pilger's conspiracy theory about the CIA and Sir John Kerr than espousing Miss O'Keefe's of Camberwell South mantra of readin', writin', 'rithmitic! Luckily  the sky cleared. Free at last, times tables done, Ned burst from the van and declared his desperation to add the tallest mountain in South-East Western Australia to his belt. The information said it would take 4 hours. The sign in sheet indicated people had taken more than 5. Sara sneered. Oli raised one side of his top lip and hissed, "We'll be down in three." Despite the vaguely Indian nature of his accent, he was true to his word. DYB DYB DYB DOB DOB DOB Three hours, Bluff Knoll sorted...next...

The rest of the day was spent with Eddie. He went over his orchid collection, showing us photos of all the orchids he'd seen in the park. Then we saw the snakes, and the lizards, and the birds, and the floods, and the fires, and the spiders. It was fantastic. We left the Stirlings early the next day, arriving in Albany before any Grey Nomad had even done a reccie of the local dump sites. Albany is a nice town. We went through the local op shops with abandon; had real bread for the first time in 2 months, and close to the best doughnut ever. We said g'day to Tattoo Dude again, Ned made his first drop in on a scooter, Sara and I bought new hiking boots, and we had fish and chips for tea. Not bad. Today was the whale museum, an animal park, and Linton's for a BBQ dinner. It's been busy, but whilst we all feel like moving, I think we should.

H

"I am so sick of bloody grey nomads..."

They're all having a great time. The men are all standing around in loose packs, with guts like bowling balls and legs like skittles, talking about tyres and awnings. The women sit in the darkness of their striped canvas annex leaving to visit the laundry or to carry a chair over to a neighbours van for a chat and a laugh. There's plenty of laughter. Meawhile, we huddle under our shelter, beseeching the kids to run off, to explore the park and discover other children who aren't there. It feels like we are the only family doing this (Linton's being the exception to the rule again).

It's a real shame. We'd hoped to meet other familys. We'd expected we would. Tanya told us that the kids would hate the campsites we loved, and we'd hate the ones they loved. She's right, but we're strating to side with them. The cheaper sites in National Parks or on the side of the road help our budget, but they're not kid friendly. We have felt like intruders as we pull up in Kimmy, and the brood spills out of the Disco to a waft of screamed instructions. Creased faces peer out from well established compounds with satellite dishes, solar panels and water filters. We say hello as we walk past and they ask us what are we doing about the kids education.

It's not like they're bad people. They're not rude or nasty. Rex came over for a chat last night. Ex-Vietnam vet, comb in the back pocket of his stubbies, a replanted thumb, and a booming rough voice. The kids laughed as he talked about Tit Hill at Puckapunul, then took him some damper. Rex and all his mates loved that. The kids loved that too and promised they'd make more for next time. The only issue is that there will be a next time. It won't be Rex, but it will be Don, or Mack, or Rose. All good people who only wish us the best, but all of them over 65 and no good on the monkeybars.

The solution I think, is not to hide. We have been guilty lately of sticking our heads down, and not walking over to say g'day. Wandering around a campsite is almost expected but it's been ages since Sara and I did that. Sticky beaking into other peoples sites and setups. The whole "we're all in this together" thing. We'll stay in parks we think will give us the best chance of meeting other families, but we'll make more of an effort to meet the greyies. Remember, Tattoo Dude is a grey nomad too!

Munglinup sunset

We left Esperance without seeing Tattoo Dude to say goodbye, and stopped at Munglinup which is a beautiful little beach with a big lagoon perfect for snorkelling. If I was a spear fisherman we would have eaten like kings. There's something different though about shooting a living thing as opposed to hooking it. I also don't like the idea of swimming in sharky waters leaving a trail of fish blood behind me. Two days were enough, and we moved to Bremmer Bay. The kids have caught 89 fish, none of them keepers, but they have had so much fun. We've had fires at night cooking damper on sticks and then distributing it to the grey nomads who are very appreciative. Surf has been small, but I'm getting that left leg through automatically now.

Bremmer Bay site and campfire

Next stop is the Stirling Ranges. We'd hoped to do an overnight hike, but there isn't one which we found surprising. So we'll spill out of Kimmy and climb Bluff Knoll. Rex won't be there, he climbed Tit Hill so many times he's been put off mountains. Someone else will be though so I'll send Ned over to find out where to fish. Oli can find out what bait to use. Ivy will launch a chat and charm offensive with her camel speil, and Sara can ask about other campsites over the washing. I'll head over later on that evening for a beer and a slice of pizza cooked on the baby webberQ. Just another day in Paradise.

H

Ivy, still not having any fun

The Perilous Sands of Wharton Bay

That was a very straight road. Wasn't that road straight kids? I've never seen such a straight road. How can they make such a straight road? That was such a straight road, oh, hang on, bend coming up. Pandemonium ensues in the back seat as we ease around the slightest of left hand turns. This is a straight road too isn't it Dad?

Straight Road

Tadpoling

I was so happy to be off the Nullabor. Ned probably suffered more than he should have when we discovered he had left his fleece at the skatepark in Norseman. Meant 25 minutes more of straight road. But it's done with now, tick. We'd had a great night camping at Walkers Rocks with the Lintons. After capturing the local population of geckos, the kids found the local stagnant pond and caught 120 tadpoles. Milo around a campfire made the night perfect.

Ollie at top Frenchmans Peak

Ned holding up Frenchmans Peak!

The next morning we headed off early to Esperance. On arrival, all of our plans to head out and camp at Cape le Grand were thrown into disarray by the discovery that it was the LabourDay long weekend in Western Australia. I was too stuffed to care about the workers, especially now that I'm not one, so we decided not to fight them, and locked in for 7 days for the price of 6 instead.

Not a bad decision in retrospect. Esperance is a completely unappealing place in terms of the town. It's beaches however, when it's not windy, are spectacular. We were only a half hour away from the Cape, and Lucky Bay which, the locals are proud to tell you, “is the whoitest beech in the wurld. It's been proven by soyintists n' stuff”. No local actually told me this, but I read it in a brochure, and if any of the locals could read...harsh but their library had the most discouraging system of cataloguing books I have ever seen. Mr Dewey obviously didn't make it down here.

We spent a couple of days lazing on Twilight Beach. There is a big rock 100 metres off shore. Locals climb to the top then leap off into the water 30 or so metres below. Ned, and I jumped off a lower ledge, which in addition to the fact that we were reading on the beach further separated us from the pack. Ivy was even smarter. She swam out, but didn't jump.

Yesterday we decided we were missing the Lintons so much, that we'd drive out to the Duke of Orleans bay and visit them. Encouraged by a recent sand driving expedition to Cape le Grand to rescue Ned's wetsuit from a rock that he had not left it on, we hit the beach again following a chain of 4WD's carrying surfboards. We didn't stop to surf, instead raced up Frenchmans Peak. Ollie has just finished another book about Everest, so the chance to practice some of his newly discovered rock climbing skills was too good to resist.

Little did I know at the time, the epic nature the rest of the day would assume. So epic in fact, that prose can not do it justice. Instead I have composed an poem entitled “The Perils of Wharton Bay”.

PS Tattoo Dude update. He made it to Esperance! Ned and Ivy toured his Winnebago after Abbie invited herself in! The legend grows.

"The Perilous Sands of Wharton Bay"

Twas twice as hot as Hades, when we ventured to Wharton Bay.

The Disco was overloaded, but sure and ready for the fray.

Lintons came from everywhere, Captain Nick said she'll be right,

I dialled up sand, put her in low range, and even raised her height.

Over the sand, both soft and hard, the Disco thundered through.

Locals gaped with pegless mouths, as if they thought I had a clue.

We found our spot, we all spilled out, and lay upon the sand.

The water was so very clear, fishing glory close at hand.

Zach and Ned cornered several crabs, Rosie speared a flattie,

Sara went off snorkelling, fish were hooked by Mattie.

That'll do, it's time to go, throw your bait off to the seagull.

Load that Disco to the gills, why walk when you can diesel.

The first part back was joyous, we were singing oh so loud.

Tua would have been nervous, but Adrian oh so proud.

I had scouted out our route home a little earlier on,

Except of course the last bit, where the regulars had gone.

I gunned her up that final slope of churned up sand and grit.

The wheels spun, the Disco groaned, then sank into the shit.

We all piled out to have a look, my hands went to my head.

The wheel hubs were buried, if the tide comes in we're dead.

As water flows around a rock, a solution was at hand.

Nick threw himself to digging, perhaps a guilty man.

He lifted rocks like Atlas, a path slowly appeared.

Ollie stood and watched, as I threw her into gear.

The Disco seemed to know, that it was now or never.

She rose up to the challenge and I pulled myself together.

The Bridgestones bit, my God we're saved, the Disco danced away,

She may look like an elephant, but she'll not be Neptune's prey.

The victory feast was massive, as a victory feast should be.

Wine and spuds and damper, fresh fish pulled from the sea.

But I was quiet and pensive, aware that I had made,

An error to have doubted, the sands of Wharton Bay.