It was cold on waking this morning in Cooma and is forecasted to be even more so tonight, however we have moved on, off the Great Divide and down nearer the coast, just short of twenty kilometres from the coast as the crow flies.
Our first destination after leaving the camp was
Monara Discount Tyres, down in Cooma central, where the efficient staff turned
our rogue tyre around on the caravan, thus delaying the need for renewal. It
seems the problem is related to the axle and will require attention from people
with more facilities than are to be had in Cooma, however in the meantime, this
will keep us safe.
We headed off south across the treeless Monaro
Plains, through the rain whipped up by the south westerly winds. Flocks of sheep
and small herds of cattle huddled miserably on the open plains; it seemed a
good argument for wintering barns, even if it is no longer winter. We passed
through Nimmitabel, stayed in earlier in the year, pausing to use the public
facilities before returning thankfully to the warmth and shelter of the vehicle.
About ten kilometres south of this small village,
the Monaro Highway became once more the Snowy Mountains Highway, turned more
easterly and tipped off over the escarpment down a winding steep slow road, as
all roads up and down the eastern seaboard of this continent do so well.
As we came over the top, we caught a short glimpse of
the valley far below stretching out into the rain mist. Once at the bottom, having
descended 800 metres in a distance of six kilometres, we arrived at Bemboka. It
surprised me to learn that 578 folk inhabit this rather tired looking place. It
was once an important stopping post for the bridle path up to the Monaro
Plains, and later a centre for the dairy industry thereabouts. Today it seems
that arty crafty folk with few resources have moved into the dwellings vacated
by more purposeful people, who have in turn moved where the action is. Perhaps
this is an unfair view, and if it is and you are a go-ahead switched on inhabitant
of Bemboka, I apologise for making such a generalisation.
The road twists and turns along the hills at the
edge of the Bega Valley and then as it nears the town of Bega, we turned south
on the Pacific Highway, and travelled the last of our day’s journey into the
Information Centre at Bega.
This doubles as the Bega Cheese Heritage Centre, a
place busy with busloads of tourists, and tourists in every other sort of
conveyance. Here there is a café, a craft shop, a cheese shop, an excellent
little dairy museum and the run of the mill tourist information centre, all
located within the confines of the working cheese factory. Strange as it may
seem, neither of us had made the connection between Bega, the place, with Bega,
the cheese, which we have purchased both here in Australia and in New Zealand.
Of course, it should have been obvious, particularly if we had read the place
of manufacture, but then we are not infallible.
Bega is a rural service centre, with over 4,500 inhabitants,
well placed on the highway that runs all the way up and down the coast, and the
centre of a fertile dairying region. It was our plan to visit the art gallery
and the museum, and then move on further south, probably camping by the
roadside at some free camp, however it has rained on and off all day, and is likely
to be cold again tonight, so we have decided to stay a day or two, maybe three.
Hence we are established at the only caravan park in
town, managed by a delightful chap who advised us that some of the routes we
wish to explore are better travelled without a caravan in tow. The forecast is
better for the week ahead, and tomorrow the art gallery will be open. I should
have checked the small print before we drove back into town to visit this
centre of culture; Monday is often a rest day.
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