Ceduna and The Eyre Peninsula.
Legislation had been passed by the town council limiting liquor sales before 4 p.m. for “health” and “social” reasons. As always, political correctness rules! However, the man in the bottle shop winked and said he’d put a cask of red wine into a brown carrier bag for us since we hadn’t given him a 'dark look'. We heard of towns where the problem is so bad that liquor sales are banned altogether every second Thursday – the day dole money is paid. That way the Aborigine kids stand a chance of getting fed before the money goes on ‘grog’. Such days are known as Thirsty Thursdays.
While at Ceduna we visited the weather station and watched the daily weather balloon being released. Similar to a child’s balloon, it was about a metre in diameter and filled with hydrogen. We expected it to carry aloft a range of instruments to send back readings. In fact, it carried none at all. Beneath the balloon was suspended an inverted cardboard pyramid coated in foil – cheap and expendable. After releasing the balloon, the met. man quickly focused something resembling a telescope on it as it ascended. This instrument sent directions to the radar scanner on the roof, aligning it with the balloon. As soon as the radar detected the reflection from the foil it locked on to it and plotted the balloon’s position and altitude as it rose. From that information a computer calculated the wind’s strength and direction at various heights. We watched the radar track the balloon and the computer print out its data. The only thing that might go wrong is if an aircraft flew too close to the balloon, then the dumb radar would lock on to the aircraft and follow it home, really mucking up the results. As we watched the Ceduna balloon rise, weather balloons were being released simultaneously all over the world. The data from all the weather stations are then collated to obtain global patterns. Because air pressure reduces with altitude, the balloons expand to many times their original size until eventually – at very high altitude – they burst and fall back to earth.
We were also taken to a fenced-off area nearby and shown instruments that monitor temperature, humidity, atmospheric pressure, etc. Pam and I nodded and tried to give the impression we understood it all. The man told us the biggest hazard in his job was brown snakes. One killed his dog at that very spot last year. C'mon Pam, let's go back inside.
Camping
At Perlubie Beach. Will Those Grey Clouds Ever Clear?
Leaving Ceduna we travelled south, down the west coast
of the Eyre Peninsula. Pam found a great camping site in her copy of
Campsites of Australia. Perlubie Beach was very secluded – there
wasn’t even a sign to show it was there. We camped for a night
in the sand dunes, almost on the beach. We might have stayed longer
but for an apparently demented Aborigine woman who wandered the dunes
and screamed abuse at the ocean. The ocean totally ignored her.
The next morning we moved on to Streaky Bay. The name dates back to
1802 when Captain Matthew Flinders, RN, sailed into the bay and thought
that the streaky appearance of the sea was caused by fresh water from
a river estuary. Today's theory is that the streaking effect is caused
by oils from certain seaweeds. Since P.J. and I can’t, for the
life of us, see any streaking, it’s all quite academic to us.
However, while young Matt Flinders was knocking around this part of
the globe in his sloop at the expense of the British taxpayer, he named
everything in sight, mostly after his mates.
Sea
Lions At Point Labatt
While we were camped at Streaky Bay we visited Point Labatt. According
to the book, Point Labatt is home to the only permanent sea lion colony
on the Australian mainland. To get there we had to drive down a million
miles of dusty, corrugated, dirt roads. I didn’t buy the Pajero
to get it dirty so I wasn’t best pleased.
The sea lions are viewed from a look-out on top of some very precarious
cliffs. It was like looking down at a bunch of slugs. The picture was
taken with a zoom lens and so is rather deceptive. Even so, they look
like . . . a bunch of slugs. And I got the Pajero dirty for that? What
appear to be truck tyre prints in the sand are actually the marks left
by the sea lions. Or, perhaps . . . a truck.
Leaving Point Labatt, we visited Murphy’s Haystacks. These are a
collection of very large boulders, some of which certainly do resemble
haystacks. As for Murphy, his only claim to fame is that he happened to
own the land on which the boulders were found. These rocks are 1,500 million
years old – the book says so.
The picture (below) showing Pam next to the rock gives an idea of how large it is. Or how small Pam is.
Pam With Her Very Own Opera House
“Wort?” I asked grumpily, sliding off the bed. She’d paused in the caravan doorway on her way to the dunny.
“Look” she said, excitedly. I looked. There were kangaroos all over the place.
Since I was vertical I thought I might as well go to the toilet too. Bloody red wine always does that. I counted sixteen kangaroos grazing around the caravan. One or two looked up without much interest as I passed. The rest didn’t bother.
How cute, I expect you’re thinking. Perhaps. The grass a 'roo eats is processed and eventually comes back out - only it’s not grass any more. One kangaroo can produce a fair amount but sixteen can really make a mess - and those were just the ones I’d counted. It was only 9 o'clock, they had the whole night to work on it. Mrs Bucket had forgotten that she’d spent ten minutes with a dustpan and brush clearing a path to the caravan door when we’d arrived. By morning it will be as bad as ever.
As mentioned above, we’re now at Coffin Bay on the Eyre Peninsula. Funny name for a bay, don’t you think? The ‘coffin’ bit has nothing to do with caskets for cool corpses, this bay was named by – yes, you guessed – Captain Matthew Flinders, RN, after a mate of his, Sir Isaac Coffin, a botanist.
Three days earlier we had, with much regret, left Streaky Bay. We spent a night at a camping spot on the coast called Walkers Rocks. Not a good idea. No power for the air conditioner and the temperature was 38° C. One night of that was more than enough so we moved on to a caravan park in a lovely little place called Elliston which - you’ll be really pleased to hear - was NOT named by Matthew Flinders! Missed one there, Matt boy. Can’t remember who did name it but it was after some chick called Ellen Liston. Wonder what Ellen did to deserve that? Great little place, though, Elliston. Nice pub and lots of beautiful, empty beaches, cliffs and little islands. Would have taken some pics but just how many beach scenes can you put on one website? Wish I hadn't asked that.
“Metric?” they exclaimed, “You’ll be lucky.”
Seems that decimalisation has yet to reach South Australia. All we could get was the Imperial equivalent so, on the off chance, we bought a length of ½” hose plus some ½” fittings. After all, what’s half a millimetre between friends? Answer: Enough to change one leak into two. So that was $35 down the pan. That would have bought two bottles of half-decent red wine. Next we called Caravan Land in Perth from whom we bought the ’van. They were sorry but they don’t stock hose.
I phoned Jayco in Melbourne again, definitely not happy by this time. They promised to post a length of the correct hose out to the post office at our next destination, Tumby Bay. And they did! On ya, Jayco.
While all this was going on we picked up a great idea for a wine cabinet from a couple camped near us. A couple who clearly had their priorities right.
Wadya think? Nice wine cabinet?
Coffin Bay is a lovely, picturesque place, but unless you’re into boats or fishing, there’s really not a lot to do. One day we visited the Coffin Bay National Park. In the park we drove round a bend and there was an emu, slap bang in the middle of the road. ’Course, by the time I’d found the camera it had disappeared into the bush. Another time we came face to face with three ’roos hopping straight down the road towards us. As if by command, all three about-faced and hopped off in the opposite direction.
It was a lot of fun when we took a turn marked:
“Four Wheel Drives Only. Warning – Sand Conditions Liable To Change”.
Much of the track was rocky and bumpy, the rest was soft sand. And so, miles from anywhere and half way up a sand dune, we bogged. Wouldn't even reverse out down the slope. However, I hadn’t read a 4WD mag in the dentist’s waiting room for nothing - I knew what to do.
“I’ll let the tyres down and all will be well” I told Pam. Truth be told, she didn’t look as impressed as I’d expected her to look. Anyway, nothing daunted, I half deflated all the tyres and made like a mole in the sand behind the wheels. And out she came.
The coastline really is beautiful - sparkling breakers rolling up white, sandy beaches with towering cliffs behind. And, for the most part, deserted.
During our stay at Coffin Bay we visited
Port Lincoln a couple of times. We found it a friendly, bustling little
town with a great atmosphere. The busy waterfront had cafés and
shops on one side of the road, green grass and children’s playgrounds
on the other with the blue sky and ocean providing a backdrop. We had
decided against camping there over Christmas. A mistake, perhaps.
Staying in all these caravan parks has, of necessity, resulted in much
time (cumulatively speaking) sitting in communal toilets where you get
to thinking. WCs are a wonderful invention, are they not? They're functional,
simple, hygienic and relatively comfortable. But their acoustic qualities
are ATROCIOUS! No wonder the old dunnies were always placed at the far
end of the yard. Now here's a challenge - design a sound-absorbing pan.
Or, at least, one that doesn't behave quite so like a megaphone.
On the morning of Christmas Eve we hitched good old Bessie to Billie and,
beneath a blue and sunny sky, set off for pastures new. Tumby Bay - our
destination - proved to be another friendly and picturesque coastal village.
When we booked in at the caravan park we were given vouchers for free
drinks at the Tumby Bay Hotel. Now, isn't that thoughtful? And on Christmas
Eve too! So that's how we came to spend the evening at said hostelry which
supplied a very nice meal for a reasonable price.
The restaurant was packed with Tumby Bay residents who - as happens in
small, isolated communities - all knew each other. We felt as if we'd
accidentally wandered into someone's wedding reception. We watched the
interaction between groups, and between individual members of the same
group. It was fun conjuring up our own scenarios with the aid of a bit
of alcohol-enhanced imagination.
As we left the hotel, who should we bump into but one Bernie Bawden, an
ex-work colleague of Pam's. Small world! Actually the coincidence stretched
further than that. While in the U.K. recently we were asked by my cousin,
Anne Stanhope, to look up a pen friend of hers should we ever be near
Tumby Bay. Anne had lost touch with her some years ago. At that time I
had never even heard of Tumby Bay. A few short weeks later we were to
spend ten days there! Sadly, Anne's pen friend had succumbed to cancer
but was fondly remembered in the town. Her husband still lives there but
we decided not to contact him as the link between us was so tenuous.
But, Bernie Bawden we did meet. His family even has Bawden Road named
after it. And we all know who started that tradition, don't we?
Who named Tumby Bay? I just knew you'd want to know. Well, here's a surprise
for you. It was Captain Matthew Flinders, RN, when he was mucking about
in His Majesty's Sloop, Investigator, in 1802. Young Flinders was only
28 at the time. Nowadays a lot of blokes that age still live with their
mums. But not our hero! He was off round the world, naming stuff.
And here he is; our boy Matt.
Looks
a bundle of laughs, doesn't he?
Matt named the bay after Tumby in his native Lincolnshire.
(In Olde English, Tumby meant 'fenced village'. See how educational this
site is becoming?) Not content with naming Tumby, old Matt also endowed
over thirty other features on this coast with Lincolnshire names. Doubtless
that explains Port Lincoln and Boston, too. Well, you may think, if he
discovered it first, that was his privilege. But he didn't discover
it first! A Dutchman named Peter Nuyts popped in for a cuppa in 1627,
long before Matt. But perhaps Pete wasn't so preoccupied with naming everything
in sight.
Christmas Day at Tumby Bay
It even rhymes. A Christmas Day like none we had experienced before. All
the usual Christmas atmosphere and activities were absent. No tinsel,
no tree, no coloured lights, no relatives to visit. In fact, little to
differentiate it from any other day in paradise.
Pam sat about in the warm sunshine outside the caravan while I lay inside
wishing she hadn't forced me to eat and drink so much the previous evening.
It was all very relaxed with other campers drifting past and exchanging
pleasantries while children ran about on the grass and played with their
new toys. A phone call from the U.K. informed us it was snowing over there.
What a contrast! About the most exciting thing we did all day was watch
New Holland Honeyeaters in an adjacent tree feed from red, bell-like flowers
and poop all over our car. Boxing Day was much the same. The highlight
of the day was getting under the caravan to replace the damaged hot water
hose. That took care of half an hour . . . but we have to pace ourselves,
you see.
Next day we did quite a lot of walking in a rather futile attempt to negate
the results of the usual Christmas excesses. While wandering, we found
a lookout tower which gave a good view of Tumby Bay township with its
white beaches, its jetty and the rolling hills behind.
The jetty is now only a quarter of its original length.
It was built to transport wheat out to ships in deeper water. The bags
of wheat were stacked on wagons which transported them out along the jetty
to where a small crane loaded them on to a ship. Nowadays on the peninsular
wheat is stored locally in giant silos then transported by road to Port
Lincoln where there are modern facilities for loading it into large ships.
These large, white silos were a feature of every town we visited. Actually,
they are a feature of every town we didn't visit too.
While based at Tumby Bay we took a drive further up the east coast of
the Eyre Peninsula to see what lay ahead of us. Put simply, the answer
was 'more of the same'. Each little town had its silos, pub, post office,
caravan park, jetty, a few shops, and a beautiful beach. They were just
laid out differently in each place. On the strength of that we decided
we'd go directly to Port Augusta at the head of the Spencer Gulf on leaving
Tumby.
The 300 kilometre drive to Port Augusta was not a pleasant one. The temperature
had reached 37º by 10 o'clock and the scorching cross wind was strong
enough to make controlling the car and caravan difficult. Strangely, not
a leaf had been stirring when we left Tumby Bay. As we drove across flat
plains that stretched to the horizon, the wind whipped the top soil off
the dry paddocks and sand-blasted us, often making visibility quite poor.
The temperature reached 39º by midday and the wind swung more northerly,
often directly against us, making Billy work so hard to pull the 'van
that we seldom got into top gear. The fuel gauge dropped alarmingly. However,
there were a couple of amusing incidents to lighten our journey.
As we left Tumby we were travelling behind a brightly painted VW Campervan.
On the rear was written:
"I'm not a gynaecologist but I don't mind having a look".
Passing through the town of Whyalla we were puzzled by a road sign which
read, SHIP ENTERING. Many times we have seen TRUCKS ENTERING signs near
an industrial area. But a ship??? A little further on we were
amazed to see a giant warship, H.M.A.S. Whyalla, painted battleship
grey and towering over the road as if waiting to join the traffic.
Well, that completes Stage 2: Ceduna To Port Augusta.
