Merry Christmas! It seems that here in Australia that
those who celebrate a winter Christmas do it in July rather than in June as
their cousins across the Tasman do. It all seems very silly to me but then I
was never one for spontaneous madness. I cannot remember this happening last
year but then perhaps we did not sit glued to breakfast television then as we
seem to do these days.
Despite an early rising, we hung about until 10 am
for our appointment with Paul Winmill Caravan Repairs, to have the jerry can
holders welded to the caravan bumper bar. I use his full business name here
rather than any anonymous half reference because he gave us his card and a
couple of stubby holders with his name emblazoned all over them for promotional
purposes, and we were well pleased with the service.
We were back on the road before 11 am and headed
down river along the southern bank, keeping to the Pacific Highway until we
reached Maclean. This lovely riverside town of about 3,500 people was
officially laid out back in 1862 and named after the Surveyor-General,
Alexander Maclean. Sugar and fishing have given the town its wealth over the
intervening years, and for the last one hundred years it has hosted a Highland
Gathering every Easter. The Scottish theme is not only embraced by the one
Scottish Shop, but by every business in town. The power poles down the main
street are all painted with a wide band of the various highland tartans; Armstong,
Alexander, Fraser, Maclean, McLaughlan and so on. There is nothing pretentious
about Maclean, in fact it seems to have its fair share of losers; the
courthouse was busy and all the supporters of the “customers” were enjoying
fish and chips beside the river.
With the aroma of those same fish and chips in our
nostrils, we stood for a while on the jetty and watched a lone pelican cruise
around scoring the odd fish, but otherwise just looking so graceful gliding
about to impress us.
We walked up and down the main street, then had
lunch parked beside the flood bank that may or may not protect the town from
future floods. Floods have been a regular feature of the town’s history,
however when one travels about this whole lower Clarence area, it could not be
otherwise. We thought Maclean just delightful, but then most places glistening
in the warm sunshine are attractive to the relaxed traveller.
From here we drove west to Yamba, a seaside
settlement, currently with a population of over 5,500 and still growing,
probably with baby boomers moving into the lovely modern houses springing up on
the river flats. As with most tourist destinations, the population triples over
the summer months.
Yamba had been recommended to us, although I cannot
remember in what context. We drove across the many flat islands, linked with
low bridges across the many channels.
The town’s economy is strongly based on fishing as
is Maclean’s, as well as tourism. There were dozens of commercial fishing boats
lined up across the river from the waterfront, but as there seemed little space
for cruising caravans except for the welcoming gateways of several camping
grounds, we drove on through and found our way up the hill to the sea coast.
There are some very fine houses all along the elevated part of the town as
there are in most such places. For ourselves we cannot understand the appeal of
living with a monotonous view of the sea horizon, although this one is no doubt
broken from time to time with the excitement of passing ships and humpback whales.
We found a space above Pippi Beach, apparently where
one can dig for pipis, and gazed northwards to what we thought to be the heads.
Driving further up the road, we found ourselves near the lighthouse, and here
we did walk to the heads, high above the mouth of the river, channelled through
long rocky break walls and flanked by popular surf beaches. These very same
beaches play host to an annual surf festival, the “Surfing the Coldstream Festival”.
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| The lighthouse at Yamba |
We left Yamba by the same route we had come, still
debating how far we would travel on and where we would overnight. We decided to
make our way to the first of our planned possible camps, back on to the Pacific
Highway, across the southern arm of the Clarence River, past the Harwood sugar
mill, across Chatsworth Island, across the northern arm, then just a little way
up the road to Iluka. We pulled into this camp just a few kilometres short of
Woombah and were wooed by the woods of the camp.
So here we are, only one party of two casual
campers, the rest all permanents. The birds here are very numerous, in fact, we
are told that city slickers complain about the kookaburras’ wakeup call; I can
hardly wait. Up at one end of the camp there is a collection of bird baths and
feed stations; we watched a dozen gloriously vivid coloured parrots cavort
oblivious to our presence. Arriving early has given us even more time to enjoy
this lovely spot.
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