Shall I gloat? Forgive me if I do. It was a wipe out and should vindicate the exiled New Zealand coach of the Wallabies, poor old Robbie Deans. I wonder if he was watching last night as his old team were soundly beaten by the mighty All Blacks: 47:29. But I should not, so will say no more. I am a guest in this country of the Wallabies and know that many of my readers are also my hosts in a cock-eyed way. I shall say no more. But I will say that we passed a very pleasant evening and the fish was superb.
This morning many of the caravans and their owners, who had appeared to be marking time as we were, headed off to brave the winds on the road. Most do not have the luxury of time as we do; I did not envy them. Experience of driving our motorhome in New Zealand’s Wairarapa gales and towing our caravan on the exposed roads here has taught us it is best to stay put if possible.
But it was our last day and the day earmarked for a trip out to Coffin Bay and the National Park of the same name, so we packed up lunch and headed out. Truth be told, the weather was little better than yesterday, but we were hopeful that Coffin Bay, forty eight kilometres distant on the west coast of the peninsula, might be nicer than here.
Coffin Bay was every bit as nice as Port Lincoln, although the weather was not. The township of just less than 600 people, which swells to over 4,000 in the summer months, is just charming. Houses and baches are strung out along the bay, actually an inner harbour of the larger Coffin Bay, a wonderful waterway which is surely sheltered from the Southern Ocean most of the time. Today the wind had whipped up the white horses across the bay, just as it had back in Port Lincoln. We drove along the esplanade, and imagined ourselves enjoying quiet walks along the seashore path, but remained sheltered from the squalls in the landcruiser. There is an excellent launching facility at Coffin Bay, numerous picnic areas, a general store, a service station and a caravan park which obviously does a busy trade in the summertime.
We pressed on around the shoreline, following the signs to the National Park. Visibility was poor, although we could see that the massive area in front of us; the National Park seemed to be principally sand dunes.
The park covers an area of 310 square kilometres and was established in 1982. According to the literature, it features a long peninsula with a sheltered bay, coastal dunes, swamps and a spectacular coastline of islands, reefs, limestone cliffs and white surf beaches; altogether something to be enjoyed on calmer warmer days. Access to the majority of the park’s area is via 4WD tracks only or by a network of walking trails.
We paused beside the self-registration shelter, tossing up whether we were really willing to pay $10 for a quick ten minute drive in and out of the good sealed roads, and decided that we were not. Had the weather been better, we certainly would have; in fact it had been high on my must-do list even before arriving at the southern end of the peninsula.
It was still far from lunchtime, so we decided to drive back through Coffin Bay, obligatory anyway, and on up to Dutton Bay, yet another inner bay up from Kellidie Bay that the seaside settlement of Coffin Bay sits in.
We returned to the Flinders Highway, and drove on north up to Wangary, situated on the edge of one of the few permanent fresh water lakes on the Eyre Peninsula. Wangary is one of those places that if you blink, you miss it, and functions really as a hub for the rural community around, offering a school and sporting facilities. In the 1880s, it was a lot more, with a bakery, post office, hotel and the rest of a proper township.
We missed the turning for Dutton Bay, because (1) we were too busy looking to see what Wangary had to offer, and (2) the road to Dutton Bay is marked “Farm Beach”. All was not lost because we continued north a few kilometres, and then once we were adjacent to Mount Dutton, which reaches the great height of 83.7 metres ASL, we turned back to the south west and drove along a wide potholed country road, lined with droopy sheoks, which screened the flocks of newly crutched sheep further afield. Shall I say that I delighted in the scene while Chris kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road avoiding most of the hazards.
We were soon at Dutton Bay, once a bustling port, now with a heritage listed jetty and a woolshed built in 1875, the latter now acting as a museum. Conflicting notes in our brochures advised us the museum was “available for large and small groups, coach tours and school groups” and it was “open daily 10 am – 5 pm”. It seemed very “closed” to us and since we were but two, believed ourselves not to be the museum’s market.
Driving past the woolshed, I was much taken with the stone high walled pens, something I had never seen before, and amazed that such an old fashioned facility functioned until twenty years before it was restored. Chris was more taken by the trailer sailer yacht sitting out the back in the long grass.
On a nearby sign, I read that over 20,000 sheep were shorn at this woolshed per annum whilst nearly 100,000 fleeces were stored awaiting ketches from the Mt Dutton Bay jetty for export.
A quick dash to the public loos satisfied that a walk on the jetty would be no pleasant jaunt, so we pressed on around to Farm Beach, situated on the outside of this collection of bays and thus located on the Great Australian Bight. There is a caravan park here, and a rather insecure compound housing rows and rows of ancient tractors. We decided that these must belong to the campers who come here on a regular basis and use the tractors to facilitate launching their boats. One would have thought they could share a tractor between two or six, or even that the camping ground owner could have such a service available. However I guess it is something of a status symbol; to have your very own old 1959 Massey Ferguson, or such like. They do not compare with the likes of the colourful collection of bulldozers and tractors on New Zealand’s Palliser Bay at Ngawi; now that is a sight!
Alas, I am comparing Australia with New Zealand; something I really do try never to do. Rugby, gales, tractors… I must be feeling homesick.
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| Oyster racks at Little Douglas |
Anyway …. we continued on out to Little Douglas, a tiny fishing settlement lying near the opening between Coffin Bay and Port Douglas and being close to the main oyster leases. We drove on through a gateway, realising too late that we had come into private land. Before we turned around to exit, we saw thousands of oyster racks, a few emus standing guard and several substantial work structures. We hastily retreated and drove back out to Farm Beach, then on to Dutton Bay. It was lunchtime and we were hungry. There we parked near the jetty and ate our lunch watching the waves splash up against the shore, no more encouraged to walk the jetty than before.
And so we came on home again. Despite the fact we have spent a full four days here in Port Lincoln, we feel we have not done it justice. We do think the whole area is quite lovely and would willingly return although circumstances are unlikely to offer the opportunity. So be it.
Tomorrow we will head off again, no matter what the weather. In the meantime we shall watch some television; the election campaign is all consuming and when it is not, there is always the dreadful news about Egypt, which seems to have usurped Syria on the international scene for now, or of course earthquakes in Wellington. Always excitement somewhere.
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