The
park layout was spacious and well designed, not at all like
the park pictured (right) which resembled a refugee camp!
For the first time we found there were some of our 'Non-Reflective
Cousins' residing in a chalet in the caravan park. They didn't stay long.
The police visited them twice within the first twelve hours of our stay
and we didn't see them again.
In the town centre of Port Augusta, however, we found lots of them hanging
around the parks and streets. Does the presence of a Centrelink (dole)
office in the town have a bearing, or am I too cynical? We watched a bit
of cabaret outside Woolworth's in the town centre one afternoon. Hearing
a lot of shouting and commotion we looked across and saw two female Cousins
fighting. As happens, a crowd gathered to watch and every spectator, black
and white, was grinning broadly. Next thing an enormous security guard
appeared and tried to separate the combatants. Given the size of his stomach
- which hung almost to his knees - we had some difficulty in believing
he was a security guard; the man could hardly walk! But, emblazoned across
the back of his shirt was the word "SECURITY" which was a dead
give-away. We heard him shout "P--- off" at one of the women
and he attempted to chase her away - which was worth watching on its own.
A female Cousin near to us was laughing so much that she walked smack
into a steel stanchion with her head. The resonation of the stanchion
resembled a gong - booooong! I wonder if that's why they're called . .
. . no, don't even go there. However, she kept laughing and the rest laughed
even louder. It might just be coincidence but there was a pub directly
opposite Woolworth's. Well, c'mon, it might be coincidence! Right, and
who's cynical now? Port Augusta, as you doubtless know, is the crossroads
of Australia. All road and rail traffic travelling either east-west or
north-south passes through Port Augusta.
The caravan park appears to be used as a transit stop rather than a destination.
We stayed a week and during that time we noticed that the park almost
emptied every morning and a fresh influx arrived to replace them each
afternoon.
The
Port Augusta caravan park is home to hundreds of Black-Eared Miners,
very similar to Noisy Miners but without the black cap. They are certainly
as noisy!
When we visited the town's tourist bureau we began to realise
why people were not staying in Port Augusta - it just wasn't geared up
to cater for tourists. For example, they have a wonderful attraction called
the Pichi Richi Railway that runs through spectacular scenery between
Port Augusta and a little town called Quorn in the Flinders Ranges. It
climbs over a thousand feet, twisting and turning as it goes. It crosses
little bridges and runs along precarious ledges.
The track was originally built for the old Ghan train - pure history.
We would have loved to travel on it but it only operates from April to
October because of the fire risk from the steam locomotive. The railway
apparently does sometimes use a diesel in March and November, so why not
operate all year round?
One day we drove 160 kilometres into the Flinders Ranges (this time named
after, not by, our old friend, Matt) to a small resort known as Wilpena
Pound at an elevation of 1,800 feet. Again, the scenery all the way was
spectacular with rocky peaks rising to 3,500 feet. We found a solar power
station built by a Perth company to supply electricity to the resort.
It was hidden in a sheltered valley a short walk from the road. The whole
day was absolute magic but we only discovered this place by exploring.
It didn't even rate a mention from the staff at the tourist office.
Once
they realised they'd been seen they fled faster than a Cousin
from a job vacancy. Well, perhaps not quite that fast.
Wilpena Pound (after which the resort is named) is a huge
dish-shaped hollow surrounded by high, rocky peaks. Not, it seems, formed
by volcanic action or a meteorite impact but by wind and weather eroding
the softer interior of the hollow over millions of years while the craggy
rim is made of sterner stuff. Or something like that. Not sure where the
name Wilpena comes from (probably Aboriginal) but Pound is the English
word meaning 'enclosure'.
Encouraged by our 'find' we planned another drive out, this time going
south-east. We climbed a steep, twisting road through a mountain pass
which provided us with more spectacular scenery. Through the pass, we
found ourselves on a wide plain with more mountains in the distance. At
length we arrived in a little town called Melrose, nestled at the foot
of the towering Mount Remarkable. We quickly spotted a coffee sign outside
a small, dark building. The car didn't need telling, it pulled over and
stopped. Expecting a café, we were surprised to find ourselves
in blacksmith Bluey Blundstone's workshop, as it had been in 1865. In
the centre of the workshop was a rusty, iron quenching tank containing
water. Looking into the water we saw an empty white basin on the bottom
of the tank with coins all around it. A sign told us that if we dropped
a coin into the tank and it landed in the basin, our coffee would be free.
Pam had a go, and guess what? We paid for our coffee.
The café was behind the blacksmith's shop, but it - indeed, the
whole place - had been restored beautifully, retaining all the atmosphere
of bygone days. Behind the café there was a lovely native garden
with old artefacts everywhere. Beyond, there was a cottage which now accommodates
bed and breakfast guests, again authentically restored. Pam and I were
so rapt with the place that the owners gave us carte-blanche to wander
at will. And we did.
Mount Remarkable dominates the town, its slopes appearing almost vertical.
There is a road which takes you to a cenotaph a short way up the mountain-side
where the fallen from World War 1 are remembered - all seven of them.
From the monument we looked out over the town to the plain beyond. Pam
quickly found a picnic table and . . . out came lunch.
After her pack horses had died of thirst, Bucket collected a few essentials - her knitting, a selection
of Tupperware products, her calorie counter and a tube of skin cream - and went on alone.
Moving
on from Melrose we (eventually) found ourselves
returning through the mountains via the Germein Gorge.
Once more, a twisting, winding road with steep cuts through the rock. The road took us to Port Germein, a little place which didn't send us into raptures. And from there, we returned for our last night at Port Augusta. Or, as the Cousins would say, Porta Gutta.
Port Pirie
Next morning we hitched up the caravan for the short journey south to
Port Pirie where we were greeted by a large grain terminal, a lead smelter
and 42º Celsius.
The caravan park was on the banks of the Port Pirie River which flows
(if indeed it flows at all) into the Spencer Gulf. The Gulf's original
name was Spencer's Gulf, named after Earl Spencer, the First Lord of the
Admiralty.
Okay, here's an easy one: Who named Spencer's Gulf? Yep, good old Matthew
Flinders. No prizes for getting that one right.
We found the town centre of Port Pirie pleasantly compact and the people
very friendly. A visit to the museum proved interesting. In days of old
the railway used to run up the centre of the main street which was called,
would you believe, Main Street. Steam locos hauling passenger carriages
would stop at the museum which, in those days, was the railway station.
More frequently, however, those steam locos would be hauling ore from
Broken Hill to the smelter where lead, gold, silver, cadmium and copper
were recovered from it. The main reason we'd stopped at Port Pirie was
because Billy, our good old Pajero, was due for a 45,000 km service. It
cost us the equivalent of thirty bottles of red wine! I realise you're
questioning our priorities but we ask a lot of Billy and so far he hasn't
missed a beat. We'd like things to continue that way.
Both the days that we spent in Port Pirie saw the mercury reach 42º
C. The caravan air conditioner was a godsend but it really battled to
bring the temperature down to a semi-comfortable level. The fridge, too,
wasn't quite up to those conditions.
What we didn't know at the time was that the lower Eyre Peninsula - just
across the Spencer Gulf - was being devastated by fire. With temperatures
exceeding 40º and the countryside tinder dry, strong gusty winds
gave the exhausted fire crews little chance. We'd spent Christmas there
and had only left ten days earlier. The news shook us severely. The places
worst affected were familiar names, little communities where we'd stayed,
visited or passed through. Nine people were confirmed dead with several
more still missing. An estimated 250,000 sheep were dead. The Tumby Bay
Hotel, where we'd spent Christmas Eve, was full to capacity with people
whose homes or farms had been destroyed. The fire had threatened Tumby
Bay at one stage but thankfully a change in the weather intervened. Water
supplies, power and telephones were badly disrupted. Some heartbreaking
stories emerged. One mother, fleeing the flames with her two children
in a car, hit a tree in thick smoke. The fire reached them before rescuers.
All three died. Their farmhouse, ironically, didn't burn.
A sincere thank you to the good friends who contacted us to ensure we
were okay.
Port Victoria
After Port Pirie we journeyed further south to spend five days at Port
Victoria, a small, coastal village midway down the west coast of the Yorke
Peninsula. You're doubtless sick of hearing that everywhere we visit is
picturesque. Well, sorry but Port Victoria fits that description too.
The caravan park is terraced and runs right down to beach. However, perhaps
we should have listened to advice once given to us by a fellow camper:
“Avoid coastal caravan parks during the summer school holidays.”
Good advice, this park was riddled with the little ankle biters. Using
Port Victoria as a base we explored the Yorke Peninsula. One day we arranged
to tour the grain terminal at Wallaroo.
Prior to retirement, Pam worked for Sealing Technology Australia, a company
which specialises in sealing the giant cells to make them airtight. (An
inert gas is pumped through the grain to destroy any nasty creepies, eliminating
the need for toxins.) Despite working for S.T.A. for many years and being
offered a tour on several occasions, Pam had never seen a silo close up,
let alone toured one.
Left: Industrial Bucket
We found the size of the cells awesome. We were amazed to learn that
the spaces between the cylinders is also used for storage. In addition
to various grains, also processed are beans, peas and lentils.
We watched a huge truck draw in under the complex and tip its load of
beans. The truck parked over a steel grill and the beans fell through
the grill into a hopper below. The hopper fed the beans onto a conveyor
belt which carried them to an elevator which lifted them to the top of
the towering cells. There another conveyor carried them across the top
of the structure until they reached their destination cell . . . and in
they went.
At harvest time, trucks arrive at the terminal's storage facility by the
dozen. They will be carrying any of several different varieties of wheat
or barley. There are eight parallel lanes leading into the facility. Each
lane is reserved for one specific type of grain, so the drivers need to
be careful. A sign on the approach road advises them of which lane to
use. Before tipping each load is checked, and not just the grain at the
top of the load either. Samples are drawn from deep inside each truckload.
Right:
A cloud of dust drifts up as the truck tips
its load of beans through the grill on which it had halted and into the
below-ground hopper.
Inset: Our
tour guide, Graham, shows us some of the beans. The grill through which
they fell can be seen behind him.
The grain is cleansed of foreign matter and dust before it is transferred by truck to the storage cells prior to being loaded into a ship via another conveyor system. During our visit to Wallaroo there was a ship loading which was destined for Iraq. During busy periods, a cell may be discharging grain to a ship from the bottom while simultaneously accepting fresh grain from storage at the top.
On our way to our next destination, Clare, we passed through a little place called Snowtown. We didn’t actually pass through it, we stopped for a coffee. As we do. Since there was a town notice board next to our car, we paused to peruse it. (D'ya like that - “peruse”?) The street was very quiet with just an occasional car passing by so we were startled when a loud male voice started shouting. Turning, we saw a bloke across the street yelling something - and he was yelling at us. He sounded angry but I couldn't make out what he was saying. What had we done? He came towards us, still yelling. I really couldn’t make out a word he was saying though I did catch the phrase ‘body bank’. By now he had come right up to us. It was apparent that he was a few cents short of a dollar. I was still trying in vain to understand him when Pam responded. I listened in amazement as a short conversation ensued, only one side being intelligible. Then he walked away. I looked at Pam.
“Did you understand what he was saying?” I asked.
“Yes, every word” she replied.
“Well I couldn’t grasp any of it. How is it you could understand him?”
“I was the mother of a teenager for years.”
“Ah!”
Pam burst out laughing.
“What’s funny?” I enquired.
“You should have seen your face when he called you Grandpa - it was a picture! Did you think he was asking you for a deposit for the body bank?”
“I didn’t even know he’d called me Grandpa. Anyway, what’s all this about a body bank?” I asked.
“That building across the street is the closed-down bank where they discovered drums in the vault containing the body parts of seven or eight people.”
The
Body Bank
Then I remembered. Of course, Snowtown. The gruesome story had been in
all the news bulletins at the time. In fact, the trial of one of the accused
was still in progress. It seems that some enterprising types had struck
upon this great idea for making money. Just knock off a few people receiving
dole, or other social security benefits, then keep claiming the money.
Easy. Nice regular income.
The only problem was, what to do with the bodies? Well, where safer than
sealed in drums in a bank vault? Had to chop them up to get them in the
drums though. Nobody looks twice at drums being moved, but someone dragging
a couple of corpses by the ankles tends to attract attention.
Then came the day that the building was sold and the nice lady came to
view her purchase . . .
Poor Snowtown was not involved in the murders, it just happened to have
a convenient bank vault that nobody was using. And we had parked right
across the street from it.
Our rather strange friend (who, it transpired, had received brain damage
in an accident) must have thought we’d gone there to gawk. Gawk?
Us? As if ! But . . . well, seeing that we were there and nobody could
see me between the car and caravan, I knew you'd expect a picture.
The name, Snowtown, conjures up romantic images of alpine scenes and skis
(or it used to until the above occurred) so it was quite a disappointment
to learn that it doesn’t snow in Snowtown. The town was named by
a state governor in the late eighteen hundreds in honour of his secretary,
one Thomas Snow. You know, I blame Matt Flinders; he started all this
naming nonsense. However, I digress. We were on our way to Clare . . .
Clare was named by an Irishman after Clare in Ireland. It is the commercial centre of the green and leafy Clare Valley where there are three dozen wineries including Taylors, Gramps and Annies Lane. The area is similar to the Margaret River region - right up our street!
On arriving in Clare we had to pass through the town to reach the caravan park. Pam and I liked both the town and the caravan park immediately. Partly, perhaps, because there were no kids in the park and no ‘Cousins’ in the town. Or it might have had something to do with Clare having three pubs!
Anyway, as soon as we’d set up the ’van, we took off to check out the first pub under the pretext of doing some shopping. On returning to the caravan we noticed that the registrations on the vehicles on either side of us were from Western Australia. One couple was from Canning Vale where Pam used to work. The other was from Beverley where I used to glide. Small world. (And it's getting smaller. Read on.)
Next day we visited a smashing little town called Burra. Used to be ‘Burra Burra’ but they decided one was enough. It sprung up in 1845 when two shepherds, almost simultaneously, discovered copper. Long story, but miners came from Cornwall, Wales and Scotland to dig holes in the ground. They found a lot of copper but all that could be mined profitably has long since gone so the town now makes the most out of the heritage aspect of it. And why not?
The conditions endured by the miners were atrocious - yet they came to Australia supposedly to escape even worse conditions in Britain. The poorer miners dug holes in the banks of a dry creek and lived in them! What happened when the creek flowed or - worse still - flooded? Imagine waking up to find the bed soaking. Gives a whole new meaning to wet dreams. Wish I hadn’t said that. Where was I? Oh, yes, the holes, known as ‘dug-outs’, are now a tourist attraction. The better-off miners lived in small, terraced cottages (now restored and used for B & B).
“Just make a donation”, he said.
We returned to the museum feeling very guilty but the little woman was charm itself and refused to accept a donation. She turned all the lights back on, unlocked all the doors and took off dust covers for us to view the exhibits. How often do we find people like that in our lives?
Formerly
the residence of cattle baron, Sir Sidney Kidman. Now Kapunda's high school.
One day we visited the town of Kapunda which also came into being through the discovery of copper. We went first to the Information Centre where we felt an immediate rapport with a very nice, helpful lady called Kathy Warburton. We talked to her for a while and it turned out that her husband, Bob, had attended the same primary and secondary school that I had in the U.K. As kids we had played in the same park though he is three years older than I am. (C'mon, somebody has to be.) Not only that, but her husband's younger brother, Richard Warburton, also attended the same school and was in the same class that I was. Richard, too, had been in Australia but had tragically been killed in a mining accident while driving a grader at Port Hedland. Once again, it's a very small world and getting smaller. Read on . . .
As we had been late in arriving at Kapunda we were unable to explore much but we found many references in the town to a self-made cattle baron, Sir Sidney Kidman, who had owned most of the area in his day. Film star Nicole Kidman is his great niece . . . or something. We did, however, manage to investigate the inside of one building before we left - the Sir Sidney Kidman Hotel. Well, you have to support local commerce, haven't you?
Old Sid Kidman was a generous man - could afford to be, I suppose - and he gave his house (pictured above) to the town to use as a high school. Kathy had told us it was worth a visit so we dropped in one Sunday afternoon, just on spec., and scored a tour of the place from a kind teacher who was only there to prepare for the resumption of school the next day. Aren’t people kind? Sir Sid’s place must have been a very nice pad in its heyday.
Stockport
While perusing a map, Pam discovered a place called Stockport just a few kilometres away from Clare. (Stockport was the town in the U.K. where Pam and I lived until we emigrated.) Naturally we had to go and investigate.
“Try Sharon at the house across the street” she suggested. “She's been here longer than me and she's the Post Mistress.”
There wasn't a Post Office, but hey, who cares? Sharon didn't know the answers either but suggested we try the library in a town called Riverton a few kilometres away. They have a green book, you see? Well, the Riverton library didn't have the green book - it had been transferred to the Information and History Centre. And, Oh dear! That closed half an hour ago.
Stockport
Station, Then and NowSo, there was nothing for it but to go all the way back to Riverton's Information and History Centre two days later, only to find a notice on the door saying it was closed for a week. But . . . at that very moment historian Rosemary Shearer walked around the corner and opened the door. Just one minute later and we'd have missed her, but she invited us in and gave us two hours of her time plus heaps of photocopies from the green book for which she wouldn't take a cent! Thank you, Rosemary.
Back to the subject. Who did name Stockport? While the records for the town are quite comprehensive, nowhere do they state who named it. However, all the indications are that it was one Samuel Stocks who was born in Stockport, England, in 1813 and died in 1850 aged 37. Perhaps his early demise explains the scarcity of references to him.
Today, Stockport is a small farming community. Many of the houses appear neglected and you could drive through the 'town' without seeing a soul. But it wasn't always so. In its early days it was the thriving hub of commerce in the area. It had four pubs (one called The Stockport) and things could get quite lively. Before the railway came, bullock teams hauled copper from the mines to Port Adelaide and returned with loads of coal. They would stop at Stockport and the teamsters caused so much trouble that the locals requested a ‘peace officer’ for the town. The request was refused.
The picture (above right) shows Stockport station in more prosperous times, and (right) as it is today. Is it my imagination or had some creative 'fiddling' been carried out on the black and white photo to make the station look longer and grander? It looks decidedly more 'dumpy' in the colour picture. Today the bitumen on the platform has weeds growing through the cracks. The buildings are deserted and padlocked. Only one track remains but at least that is still in use - we watched two diesel locomotives haul a grain train through. There's always something sad about an abandoned railway station, don't you think? Once - before the roads were sealed and everyone owned a car - it would have been the lifeline of the community. Now it's just a decaying relic of a bygone age. I know that feeling well.
Okay, that was all very interesting but we still had a continent to explore, so back to Clare. There was an open-air pop concert planned for the next Saturday night at Annies Lane Winery. On Friday evening the peaceful, laid back atmosphere of the caravan park was shattered as young people with loud cars, loud music and even louder mouths, flooded in and set up tents everywhere. Fortunately we had planned to leave on the Saturday morning on advice from the park manager - “If you want to stay you can but, believe me, you won’t want to!” He was right.
Nuriootpa
Our next stop was Nuriootpa - and I still couldn't say it right after practising for a week. It’s pronounced ‘new ree oot pa’. Thankfully the locals just call it Nuri (rhymes with fury). The name is derived from the Aboriginal word, Nguriatpa. Come back Matthew Flinders, all is forgiven! Regardless of the name, this was one of the nicest places we had visited. Just as Clare is the commercial centre of the Clare Valley wine growing region, so Nuriootpa is the commercial centre of the Barossa Valley wine growing region. Wall to wall vines, everywhere we went.
We were given a prime location in the caravan park, shaded by a beautiful
flowering eucalyptus tree. It vibrated with the hum of bees all day and
attracted scores of multi-coloured birds. (I don't actually know what sort
of tree is is, but eucalyptus is a pretty safe bet.)Home Amongst The Gum Trees
Life can be so cruel sometimes. There we were, passing through the heart of two world-famous wine producing regions, and unable to take advantage of it because Mr and Mrs Bucket were in grave danger of becoming Mr and Mrs Barrel. Pam is determined never to put on weight again so she's put us both on a strict diet and I'm only allowed one drink a day. Hyacinth Bucket lives!
Based at Nuriootpa we were still within easy reach of Kapunda where we had met Kathy Warburton. Kathy had phoned and invited us to afternoon tea so we could meet her husband. What a colourful character Bob turned out to be! A pilot of both powered aircraft and gliders and a connoisseur of red wine to boot! I started to recount the story of how I was at the Avro airfield the day the first Avro Vulcan delta-winged jet bomber flew. You guessed - he was there too. Then he told us that he'd been in Darwin when Cyclone Tracy struck. You win, Bob. I can't match that.
On the way to Kapunda we decided to stop and eat the lunch Pam had prepared for us. A road sign indicated a rest area 400 metres ahead so we pulled in. There we found a huge statue of a Cornish miner called Map Kernow. The name is Cornish and means ‘Son of Cornwall’. The Cornish connection harks back to the discovery of copper when many Cornish miners were drafted in because they knew it all when it came to copper mining.
The truck driver was not at fault and we were travelling at 10 k.p.h. below the speed limit. It was extremely unnerving, but how can this sort of incident be avoided? The short answer is, it can't.
The roads are not wide enough for a truck to safely pass another vehicle without risking its left wheels running off the bitumen. And when that happens, rocks will get thrown up. We spent a lot of time driving on South Australia's country roads and found them pretty appalling. The roads are too narrow, the surface is frequently bumpy and patched. The gravel verges have, more often than not, eroded leaving the edge of the bitumen undercut, breaking away and jagged. To exacerbate all this you are sharing these roads with large trucks and the speed limit is usually 110 k.p.h.
While exploring the Barossa we came across Lincoln Nitschke's Military &
Historical Aircraft Collection, a truly marvellous aircraft museum. Well,
one of us thought it was wonderful, the other just yawned. Lincoln had even
acquired, complete, a Canberra jet bomber, an Avro Anson, a DH Vampire,
a CAC Wirraway and a DH Devon as well as many partial aircraft. There was
a multitude of aircraft engines, including that most famous of all, a Rolls
Royce Merlin. The museum walls were covered in photographs and newspaper
clippings and Lincoln had built a collection of over 1,400 scale models.
Perhaps the most intriguing exhibit was . . . A Full-sized Replica of a Mustang.
It was built by a man who, recovering from a serious illness, was advised by his doctor to find himself an interest. From 1/72 scale plans of a plastic Airfix model Mustang, he built the full sized replica (pictured) in his back yard. The only original Mustang component was the cockpit canopy. The rest was fabricated, mainly from wood and sheet metal. All the control surfaces respond to movement of the cockpit controls. He even fitted a Datsun car engine to spin the propeller for realism! From a few metres away you wouldn't know it wasn't the genuine article. It has even fooled people who have worked on real Mustangs.
Lincoln was an extremely interesting man. We talked at length and I discovered he used to be a glider pilot at Waikerie and has a love of diesel engines. Instant rapport! He travels extensively to view aircraft, motor and motorcycle museums, as well as castles and cathedrals. The amount of energy, expertise and devotion that he's put into his museum is quite phenomenal.
