We are still here in Carnarvon, now waiting for businesses to reopen on Monday, hoping to have the bearings checked out on the caravan. Chris has been making noises for some weeks, even months, about having the caravan serviced, given the many thousands of kilometres we have dragged it. He jacked it up yesterday morning and spun the wheels or whatever men do to test such things and did not like the resulting noise. Not at all mechanical, although very practical, he decided they should be checked before we head south again. I am in full support as the last thing I want, is another very costly exercise in some isolated settlement. This somehow seems to justify extortionate prices.
Apart from dealing with this mechanical diagnosis
yesterday morning, we headed into town to the market. According to the
excellent Carnarvon brochure, the Carnarvon
Courtyard Craft Market and Gascoigne Growers
Market operate every Saturday morning from May to October in the Civic
Centre Courtyard. Perhaps we were late because it was a little after 10 am by
the time we got in, but I think not. We were misinformed which was a
disappointment because with Carnarvon such a 'cornucopia' of produce, I was
hoping to stock up on some beautiful fresh vegetables.
What we did see in overflowing abundance however,
were the queues of caravan rigs at the service stations. Perth should be empty
of all caravan and camper trailer owning over-fifties by the time we arrive, in
fact probably by the middle of this month. It seems that they do indeed come
north in their masses, just as the greater crowds do on the east coast.
We passed the afternoon quietly in camp, I busy with
administration matters on the computer and Chris healing his back; nothing
serious but better for not having to sit in the driver’s seat for a few hundred
more kilometres. Before sunset we enjoyed our coffee, the gentle breeze, the
pleasant thirty degree temperature and the absence of biting bugs, out under
the awning, as flocks of corellas wheeled high above the camp and across toward
the dry riverbed in some pre-sunset ritual. It had been a pleasant day and we
both looked forward to dinner. We had picked up some kangaroo fillets in the
supermarket and Chris was planning one of his excellent stir-fries.
Alas, when the assembly of the dish began, the gas
ran out on our little outdoor cooker and there was much panic until the small portable
camping burner was put together and operational. In the meantime, I had the
rice cooked and ready. We had sticky rice, overcooked roo and a wonderful mess
of vegetables. I enjoyed it but my would-be chef lamented the less than perfect
presentation of the meal.
This was made worse by the fact that the night
before, we had a Skype call from Larissa, invited earlier by us but slightly
badly timed, in the middle of cooking dinner. The pasta was beyond al dente and
again the meal was below the excellent standard we normally enjoy.
My chef-cum-chauffeur wondered how we would fill
this day in limbo, however he should never doubt when I am about. A walk was
required, provided he was at least semi-mobile. In fact it was probably the
lack of such that had caused the back problem and certainly was the cause for
the kilograms that are slow to budge despite our every vigilant dietary intake.
We would walk from the town across to the end of the One Mile Jetty, a round
walk of eight kilometres.
And so we did, setting off at about 9.30 am this
morning after parking the land cruiser outside a busy café at the top end of
town; a security measure, there is a valuable load of diesel riding on the roof
rack. The sun was out but few other walkers, as we set off across the bridge
onto the island. Unlike a few days ago when we had encountered several aboriginal
folk gathering their seafood, there was no one at all. We walked on across the
wide dirt track following the old tram line, passing only one novice runner,
who walked more often than running and turned back before long.
 |
| The One Mile Jetty |
We were disappointed to find a large section at the
end barricaded off and marked with “No Entry” and “Authorised Entry Only” signs.
We figured we had paid to walk to the end of the jetty, to walk the length of the
jetty and that is what we would do. We squeezed through an opening and picked
our way carefully over the few solid but dodgy looking planks to the end and
returned. What rebels!
Back on the legal side of the barrier, we chatted
with a chap who had come up from Perth for three weeks and was enjoying some
unsuccessful fishing. He had left his wife home with the dogs and goldfish, and
anyway, she didn't like camping and travelling like he did. When he learned
what we were doing, he was envious, but his wife wouldn't like to do that. Poor
sad bugger! And we do meet so many men who say the same thing. If it were not
for these bloody minded, strong willed women, there would be thousands more
gypsies on the road.
And even worse, this man had decided to return to
work when he got back home. The GFC had badly dented their nest egg, but I
suspect full time with the wife was not the most exciting aspect of his life. As
I said, poor bugger.
We wished him a happy holiday and walked back to
shore along the dodgy wharf, for which one must pay for the privilege, back
across the island, the wetlands, the salt marshes and the arid sand hills, back
across the bridge to the town and came on home, after picking up the Weekend Australian.
Badly out of condition and badly dressed for a long
walk in the sun, I spent the afternoon in the shade relaxing, while my husband
pottered about, tidying the “storage shed” in the land cruiser, pumping up
tyres and doing what men do best, apart from cooking and driving.
Hopefully tomorrow we will be able to have the
caravan wheels checked out or we might still be here again another night! Could
be worse!
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