It’s not just about eating. Is it? Really?

(Waratah Beach, January 2008)

I hope everyone is enjoying these blogs. I’m a bit concerned that there is so much detail that none of you are actually reading it. Some of the basic grammatical mistakes clearly shows that I’m not reading it very well, either. Sorry about that. It is proving a bit difficult to find the time to write about all the stuff we’re doing, what with most of our time being taken up by actually doing all the stuff I have to write about. A classic miscalculation, I grant you. Still, I will try and keep up, because I know that my Mum, Dad and Nan are definitely reading every word. Hello mum! Hello Dad! Hello Nan! You weren’t supposed to open your birthday present until your birthday, but I guess we’ll let you off… and yes, I have put one or two pounds on, but I’m on day fifty something of not smoking! I’m not even counting anymore! The pounds on the scales, that is…!

Anyway, back to the plot:

We had neglected to book anywhere to stay for the coming night, so first things first, we called a backpacker hostel in Kiama. They didn’t take bookings on the phone, which should have triggered the alarm, so on our way through the town we called at the Information Centre. They gave us a couple of addresses for motels, which were way over budget, so we decided to call in at the hostel anyway. Having found the bloke who purportedly ran the place, we asked if he had a room. Normally a yes or a no would follow, but he asked if we’d seen any of the rooms. We told him we hadn’t, to which he asked how we knew we wanted one. We decided that we didn’t want one after all, and left.

Next door was the Kiama Hotel, essentially a pub with some rooms above it. We called in and asked the barman if he had any rooms for the night. He told us that the cleaner was still upstairs, and he didn’t know if he had any rooms until she came down. At this point, I expected him to ask if we’d like to have a drink and wait for him to find out, but he simply walked away. So we walked away, too.

We sat over the road with our guide-book, and Michelle suggested that we try some places further inland. We found a place called Kangeroo Valley, and being good tourists, decided to try there, because we liked the name. Within five minutes we had a cabin booked, for less than the hotel advertised their rooms, and set off to sit on the beach for a while. We felt we deserved a break after all that conflict.

Having read our books and enjoyed yet another excellent beach for a couple of hours, it was getting dark, and was time to set off for ‘Roo Valley. We stopped off at some public toilets, where I was offered drugs by a skinny bloke standing by the door to the gents, and so we got the hell out of Kiama. I’m sure the bit we didn’t get to see was very nice, but we’re in no hurry to go back…

Kangeroo Valley was a different story. 30 km inland, with most of the road being of the windy up and down variety, it is essentially a dairy farming area, with a one street town which has a Scottish-looking stone bridge, called the Hampton Bridge, at one end. Just before this bridge was our campsite, and the very friendly couple who ran the site had stayed open especially for us, ran through all the usual stuff, showed us the range of DVDs they had for guests use, with no charge, and then told us which places to eat in, drink in and buy stuff from, in the town.

The cabin itself was small, but easily the nicest we’d stayed in. As we went out to pick a DVD, we bumped into an Aussie couple with two small boys, said hello, and set off into town. We got some beer from the bottleshop, and as we left, bumped into the Aussie couple coming in. We ordered food down the road, and as we sat outside waiting for it, the Aussie couple rocked up to order theirs. We chatted while we waited, noting that the people who ran the site must have shares in the bottle shop and the food place, and then both set off back to the campsite.

Stuffed, we lay in bed watching our chosen movie, and both miss the end.

The next morning we re-packed, and as I loaded the car, spotted the bloke we had been chatting with the previous night, at the playground with the older boy. I went over and, realising that we hadn’t actually done so yet, introduced myself. Geoff and I chatted about Sydney, I found out that he and his wife, Bridget, were both Film Editors, and they lived in Belle Vue, a suburb of Sydney. They had both travelled a lot before starting a family, and we got on so well that by the time Michelle and Bridget and joined us we realised that we were late checking out again. I ran over to the office, all apologetic and out of breath, and the lady told me that she had seen us chatting and she thought we’d all get along, so there was no hurry. Geoff and Bridget gave us their numbers and address, telling us that we must call them next time we’re over. I think we definitely will.

One of the nice things about being a little inland for a change was that we were close to a couple of waterfalls, and Michelle could therefore tick these of the long list of ‘things to see in ‘stralia’. The first was Fitzroy Falls, and following a short walk we came across a rather disappointing trickle of water falling down a much more impressive cliff face. Back to the car after avoiding the hoards of Japanese and German tourists, we drove to another place called Carrington Falls, which Michelle had found on a map, and found a much better twin waterfall. We also found an empty car park, a sign that said ‘Stevo’s walk’, and an excellent little track which led to the top of the waterfall. Result. Another twenty minutes down the same road is a rain forrest walk called Minimure, which was notable for being calm, quiet and empty. We completed the 2 hour walk in 45 minutes, and rewarded ourselves with lattes at the café in the middle of the rain forest. By this time it was late afternoon, and we decided we really ought to try and find somewhere to stay for the night. The 6th place we try out of the numerous books we have collected is in Culburra Beach, and they have a cabin which we book for two nights. We get there late as it’s quite a drive down the coast, pick up Chinese food and have a moonlight walk on the beach.

Culburra Beach is at the North end of Jervis Bay, and the next morning we decide to see how many beaches we can visit in one day. Jervis is a natural horse-shoe bay, with Booderee National Park at the South end, and a number of beaches along the way. We started at Huskisson, which contained way too many Man Utd shirts on pink people and cheapy ‘tat’ shops for our liking, before driving to Hyams Beach, which contained hardly any people in any type of shirts, or indeed any type of shops. The sand was white and despite the grey skies was beautiful, so we stayed for a while before having a coffee at Vincentia, staying at Green Patch for about 2 minutes because there were too many stupid people (how difficult is it to understand a sign that says “do not feed the birds or the animals, it upsets their natural diets and harms them”? As we walked past, one of the kids screamed because a bird had pecked her. Her Dad was shocked by the bird’s behaviour…) and headed for a place called Cave Beach. Cave Beach was a ten minute walk from the car park, and had very few facilities, which generally means that there will be less people around. And so it proved. A long, curved bay of sand with good waves, it seems to be popular with Surfers and local families who know how to behave in nature. We loved it and stayed until it began to get dark.

One of the nice things about staying in a cabin is that you get cooking facilities, and we had realised that, although it’s great to have the opportunity to eat out all the time, sometimes you just want to cook something simple. We had baked potatoes with beans and cheese, and it was as nice as anything we could have had in a restaurant.

Again we had to pack up, load the car and head off first thing in the morning. We had booked this evening’s destination the previous evening, at a motel in Marimbula, adding this to the list of campervan, hostel, house, and cabin. On the way we stopped off at the not so suitably named Pebbly Beach, which was another hard to find place, but brilliantly worth it. After an off-road drive of nearly half-an-hour, you reach a car-park, which in turn leads to a 15 minute walk down to the beach. It pays not to forget anything. We had brunch (made at the cabin that morning), Chelley went for a walk along the length of the beach, and we went up into the forest and found a whole bunch of kangaroos, sleeping and grazing. It was a shame too leave, but we had a long drive ahead. We swapped driving duties before finally hitting Marimbula, eating out in the town centre, and getting a bit upset with our neighbour’s parking at the motel. Well, I did. Michelle just looked embarrassed.

The next morning I checked out the view from our room, which was magnificent, while Michelle went for a run. The fact that I had such an amazing view should give you an idea of how high up we were, and even at that time of the morning, the sun is pretty strong. Just as I was starting to get worried she made it back, reporting that walking back up to the motel was hard enough, let alone after running a few miles in the wrong direction…

As we set off, we decide we really like Marimbula, but it’s crossed off the “possible places to live in” list because of the hills. Lakes Entrance is our next destination, and this time we have a room at a YHA hostel just out of the town. When we check in the woman tells us that a coach load of backpackers are expected in tonight, but they normally don’t make too much noise.

We walk the 25 minutes into the town (well, the one street of cafes and surf shops that counts as a town in most of the places we are driving through) in scorching heat, head for the beach, and run straight into the sea. It’s cold for about 10 seconds and then as the next wave crashes into you, it becomes cool. All around us kids and adults are jumping around in the surf, most with body boards, and all having a swell time. Sitting on the beach you dry off in no time, to be reminded of the one big pain in the bum problem this part of Australia suffers from – flies. They are everywhere. The action of waving your hand around in front of your face is known as the Aussie Salute. I’m not sure I could grow to accept them as the locals seem to, but we do our best.

After a while we head back to the hostel, and jump straight into the beautifully kept swimming pool before chatting with an English bloke who was the only other person near the pool. In the evening we walk back into town and eat at the healthiest fish’n’chip shop in the world, according to its owner, Guy from Belgium. His wheat and gluten free batter tastes excellent, his chips, cooked in special vegetable oil were tasty, and we were treated to the whole story of how he invented the batter while his wife cleared up around us, occasionally looking up to the heavens. I guess she’d heard the story once or twice.

The hostel was quiet when we returned, despite the presence of the promised coach outside, and we sat with coffee before finally giving in and retiring to the oven-like room.

In the morning we discuss how nice it would be to stay somewhere for more than one night as we pack up again, load the car and hit the road. We assign a brunch stop to a place called Sale, and when we arrive the only thing we can find is a shopping mall which seems to consist of lots of the Aussie equivalent of our ‘Pound Shops’. Chelle spots a café across the road, and it turns out to serve the best scrambled eggs I’ve had since the Alibi Rooms in Brisbane. Chelle enjoys her pancakes, and we look longingly at all the vegetarian options on the menu, wishing that we could take one of each with us.

It seems even hotter today, and the drive seems a little harder today. Foster is our destination, and another YHA place. This turns out to be the smallest place so far, catering for 10 people a night, it is essentially a small cottage with three bedrooms – our double, one with three and one with five bunks. We are the first to arrive and the very friendly host, John, shows us around. We decide to explore nearby beaches and save the big local attraction, Wilson’s Promontory, until the next day.

It’s about 3 in the afternoon, and we randomly pick Waratah Bay. Twenty minutes later we park up and walk through some green to emerge on an empty strip of white sand, some perfect looking waves, and winds which made it quite difficult to stand up. So we sat down, finding a little bit of protection from the wind in the dunes at the top of the beach. After an hour or so we had been joined by a few others, most of which turned up with body boards, some of which have dogs and one of which has a kayak. We reckon the vast majority of these are local families who head down to the beach after school and work, we are chuffed that we found the locals beach, and we enjoy being part of it.

Eventually we have to move – thanks to a mixture of being hungry, being wind-battered and being quite thirsty (unlike all the locals, we forgot to bring water with us, and there is no café on this beach), but I’m in the mood to explore. Instead of turning left to go back to the hostel, I turn the wheel right and we find another road along the coast and a sign which says ‘Neds Lookout’. Up a side road, round a corner and a short walk from a rough car-park, we climb up some stairs to be on a wooden platform overlooking miles of beach, including Waratah to our right, and Sandy Point to our left. Pictures are taken, we try to stand up straight in the increasingly wild winds, and grin at each other quite a lot.

Back down to the road, more exploring calls and as we drive along the road we find our house. It’s for sale, and it’s a four bedroom, wooden framed two story, with access to the beach and parking for loads of cars. It doesn’t say how much it is, but we enjoy the thought that we might be able to afford the shed that is at the side of the garden. With a large mortgage, of course.

When we stop at the general stores down the road to get a coffee, there is a real estate office next door, and ‘our new house’ is in the window. It’s $580,000. Which for those of you in the UK, works out to about £250,000. Michelle has to stop me going in…

Back at the hostel and we cook pasta and salad in the kitchen, before sitting outside for the rest of the evening with three German guys – Lars, Stefan and Michael – who where travelling around after working in Sydney for five months. We even had to go to the bottle shop for more beer, which just about made up for our lack of German. This is where staying in hostels wins over hotels. It’s not just about cost, although they are significantly cheaper, it’s about meeting people and exchanging ideas, and it works best in the smaller places like this one in Foster.

Oh, and we saw a wombat at last. It wandered around in the garden for a couple of minutes while we sat outside.

Tomorrow we go to Phillip Island, and eat some more food. Oh, and do some sight seeing too.