21 June 2013 - Pinjarra Caravan Park, Pinjarra, Western Australia

Our efficiency this morning in breaking camp was most impressive given that we are so out of practice after five weeks in the one place. It was just after 8.30 am that we pulled in beside the camp office and made our farewells to Glenn and his trusty canine companion. We asked him to bin any mail that came for us, received our gate pass refund and assured him we would spread the word about the camp to fellow travellers, and then we were off, back on the road again.

Breaking camp

 I had elected the inland route south, via Armadale and on down along the edge of the Darling Range. Freeways are very effective at keeping traffic moving but don’t always offer views of the surrounding countryside. It is less than ninety kilometres from Maida Vale through to Pinjarra; we pulled up near the Information Centre before 10.30 am.

Pinjarra is the centre of the Murray Shire, established back in 1834 and now boasting a population of about 4,000 . Apart from the agricultural activities about the area, Pinjarra is also home to Alcoa’s Alumina Refinery and a bauxite mine, although their whereabouts is hard to detect, everything well camouflaged by lovely trees and other vegetation. In fact the whole landscape all about here is quite lovely, sheep and cattle farms evident as we drove south, enhanced by the recent rains.

The Historic Edenvale Complex the river end of town, houses an Art Gallery, the Roger May Machinery Museum, the Heritage Tearooms and the small but friendly Information Centre. We wandered into the Machinery Museum by default, drawn by the noise of an old machine and the approving rumblings of a small group of retirees. I am not sure if Pinjarra has a “Men’s Shed” as so many places throughout Australia do, a place for men to escape the nagging and chatter of their wives apart from drinking or gambling establishments, but I reckon that this Museum would be far more appealing to the otherwise idle man if he had an ilk to tinker about. We ended up chatting for some time to a couple of old codgers, one of whom shares our passion for caravan travel. He told us a story about free camping up north near Derby, being bothered by a few locals and scaring them off with his gun, just a shot or two in the air. They scarpered and did not bother this man and his wife again; it is such stories that put travellers off staying outside security fenced caravan parks. Chris reckons he was full of wind, I reckon he just stretched the truth a little. Whatever, the story made for good telling and proved that experiences are quite diverse.

We picked up a couple of maps from the Information Centre and some advice about camping grounds. The sweet little lady who attended us must have shares in the “other” camping ground because she whispered that this one was full of permanents and the Pinjarra Park Country Camping was supposed to be “just lovely”. Their brochure advertising the $25 tariff was pretty encouraging too so we drove on out to check for ourselves. Chris was adamant that we should have good internet as he wanted to Skype his sister tonight and as we headed further out into the country, he started his negative noises. I had to get out and open the gate, then when we got to the house, outside which was parked a car, we were unable to raise anyone. The keys, probably including those to the car, were hanging in the door, but no one responded to our knocking of the old brass knocker or our shouts of “Coo-ee?”

Chris was irritated by the unprofessionalism of the business although I was most impressed with the charming setting; frolicking horses in the side paddock, a derelict old brick building near the house, the house itself solid and reeking of pioneering years. There was a sign on the door that said if no one was about we should phone John on his cell phone. That can be like a red rag to a bull and today it was. Who was to say the sites were powered anyway? We were leaving, but then there was no room to turn.

Finally I opened some gates into another yard and Chris began the manoeuvre the rig about, then I spotted a chap coming over. “Are you the boss,” I asked.

“No, I’m about Number Three,” he responded.

I told him what we were up to and he asked if we had booked or rung ahead. When I told him we had not, he said that sometimes John had bookings for the weekend and it might be full up. Chris had joined us by that time and was even more adamant we head away and try the other camping ground and so we did.

I was a little disappointed that things had turned out as they did because the farm location really was most appealing. Never mind.

So we came back into town and on through toward Mundarah to this camp, which had had a bad rap on TripAdvisor. When I had read the negative comments, I thought that if we stayed, I would make a point of saying something positive, however…. I will have to give that some thought.

The tariff here is $33, too much for what you get. We were told to help ourselves to a spot on the big green grassed area down the back reserved for campers. That sounded good, but in fact is not as expansive as it might be if there were marked sites. Two very large bus motorhomes and three caravans, apart from ours are randomly sited about the area, making it impossible for anyone else to park and feel they are not on someone’s front lawn. The camping ground itself is a busy one, full of permanents, just as we were told. Now that is a common occurrence all about the country, however there are permanents and permanents and these are more of the variety we found in the Maitland Coach Park, NSW, a caravan park to be used only if you really have to stay in Maitland. Our fellow campers are of the “bogan” variety; tattoos, shaved heads, scruffy beards, track pants, singlets and jandals. I accept that this comment shows be to be a very prejudiced and flawed person. So be it.

However the good news is that while I sit and type this, glancing from time to time through the window, I have seen small flocks of ring necked parrots and galahs fly past and up into the trees. Birds always serve to lift my spirits, not that they were really down anyway. And to be fair, the amenities are quite adequate and reasonably clean. There is power, water and internet; what more could I possibly want?

This afternoon immediately after lunch we drove the fifteen kilometres into Mandurah, around the canals and into the town centre. Mandurah is a seaside city with a population of 70,000 and sells itself as a tourist destination where one can sail, swim, surf or slum about in the many cafes, bars and restaurants. In fact the centre of Mandurah is situated on the outlet  of the Peel Inlet, a massive lake like body of water, twice the size of the Sydney Harbour, at the mouth of the Harvey, Serpentine and Murray Rivers.

The settlement of Mandurah was connected to Perth by the coastal road in 1850 and the inland road in 1856. However it was not until the 1950s when Kwinana, north of Rockingham, was developed as a major industrial centre, that tourism took off.  Today, it is apparently the fastest growing regional city in Australia.

Somewhere in the tourist brochures, I saw Mandurah described as the Venice of the Southern Hemisphere, which is a bit over the top, but understandable. We have never seen so many residential canal systems throughout our own travels.

The more we drove about and the more we saw, the more we delighted in the place. It really is so lovely, and if lakes, estuaries and inlets don’t do it for you, there are several surf beaches along the Indian Ocean coastline. Needless to say caravan parks in Mandurah are more expensive to stay in than here, but then I am sure you get more bang for your buck as they say.

It has been a lovely day and wonderful again to be on the road, albeit only a little south of our last camp. The weather has been just lovely; really cold mornings can be forgiven when the sun shines all day. We will see what tomorrow brings.