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An Unexpectedly Nice Day

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I had low expectations of my last day. Avoiding the highway, I had 40-odd km meandering through wheatfields in an awkward corner of country that was neither the Yorke Peninsula nor the Clare valley. I expected headwinds, pleasant but uninspiring countryside, and no towns or settlements to break the journey. Roger would pick me up in Dublin, a little highway town named by a long-ago Irishman who was both homesick and imaginative. I was up in time to watch the sun rise over my camp: that's my tent there under the tree in front of the green building (aka camp kitchen). The skeleton crew was already out and fishing on the river.   I meandered my way out of town, appreciating all the old stone buildings.  One of them was the bakery.  I extra-appreciated that one.   The day surprised me. The weather started dull and turned out glorious. Rabbits provided entertainment. The wind blew in fickle bursts but was controlled by vegetation.  Salt lakes dotted the countryside, breaking up the mon
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Up The Hill, Down The Hill, Across The Flats.

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After boasting about my early rising yesterday,  I woke with a start to sunlight on the tent at the almost-lunchtime hour of (gasp) 0630. I don't know what I was worried about: I still had plenty of time to take a walk on the beach and pack up in a leisurely manner. Samphire on Port Wakefield beach in the morning. The public convenience behind which I camped.  As good a place as any for a leaving photo, given I forgot to take a picture of my campsite. I'd convinced myself last night that I would take an easy day and just tootle up the highway and across the samphire flats to Port Wakefield.   Well, two seconds on the highway convinced me that I'd rather go back up the hill I came down yesterday and take the road less traveled, so off I went and surprised myself by riding most of the hill, being defeated in the end by loose gravel as much as gravity. And with the odd snake-break, of course. From here on I followed the Walk The Yorke (WTY) markers, bouncing along th
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Wheatfields And Downhills

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Thrington Road runs between Moonta and Baskerville, providing a short cut for Moonta-ites to access the highway. I swear the whole population of Moonta decided to drive up Thrington Road last night, all of them roaring past my tent in their noisy 4wds and trucks with their lights on high beam. I slept like a log anyway, even the light from the bright crescent moon couldn't keep me awake. The plan was to visit Paskeville so that some aspects of the morning routine could be conducted in peace and quiet with porcelain and water. Of course I zoned out on the bike, got distracted by The Acreage (one of those must-be-self-sufficient free camping spots), and got carried away by the tailwind for a while before it occured to me that Paskeville was actually behind me and not in front, and I was going entirely the wrong way. By then it was all too late for my porcelain-based plans: I rode up and down the road dithering but ultimately couldn't bring myself to abandon the the tailwind so of
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Getting Out Of Town.

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 I had to wait until 9am for my bike to be released from the Cornucopia's locked storage. For an early riser such as myself, this was thumb-twiddling torture but at least my precious was safe from "gentlemen", and even had another bike to keep it company. Ready to roll. I couldn't leave Wallaroo without a quick lap of the beachfront and jetty: I watched the ferry leave for Cowell and spoke to the fishers on the jetty. They all sang the same song: all the big fish were staying in the water, the crabs were shy, the wind was cold. I'm convinced that fishing is just a cover for sitting down by the sea and talking to your friends. We all took a break to watch a big crane lift Big Things in and out of a trawler to the accompaniment of vigorous arm-waving and shouted but largely incomprehensible instructions peppered with trawler embellishments. Enough of the lollygagging. I made a concerted effort to get out of town and bumped into Trevor and Kay on their way to a qui
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The Bus

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Yorke Peninsula coaches will, space permitting, carry an unboxed bicycle for the princely sum of $25 and all care no responsibility. Same for surf boards, not that I have one, but that tells you a bit about why people want to go to the Yorke Peninsula.   If the bus cargo bay is full, bicycles (or surf boards) get bumped.  Given that YP coaches averaged 8 people per big coach, I decided not to worry about the possibility of bumping and booked my ticket to Wallaroo to make the most of my five-day 'weekend.' The bus left at 4pm, bicycles needing to arrive at 3 to be eyeballed by the bus driver. "Some people box their bikes," chirped my telephone contact at YP Coaches. "Most of them just wrap it up in an old blanket or something." Off to Vinnies I (actually Roger, I was working) went for a king size doona.  It was a nice doona, almost too nice to wrap around a bicycle in the cargo bay of a bus, but I did it anyway.  So focused was I on the process of wrapping
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The Sad Tale of The Empty Bike Rack.

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 Just over a year ago Roger found a bicycle for sale second-had.  It had a belt drive, internal hub, and a show-stopping single front fork.  Roger fell in love with his new bicycle which was light and quiet and fast, making up somewhat for any deficiencies on the part of the rider's fitness level.  "You go ahead!" He would cry. "You're so much faster than me!" And off he would zoom toward the horizon, darting in and out of traffic and zipping down shady side-streets while I chugged along in his wake.  He started and held whole conversations as he sped ahead of me, chatting happily whilst never expecting a reply which was a good thing as I was long out of earshot, left in his dust. He rode his bike to an optometry appointment down in Edwardstown, locking it securely to the bike racks out the front of the shopping centre.  In a fit of extra security, he threaded his bike lock through his brand new high-visibility yellow helmet and locked that up too.  Then he
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Down At The Dog Park

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Our current home owners were very clear where they stood on the subject of walking a 66 kilo Great Pyrenees with a feline attitude towards authority. "Don't!" they said. "He only goes to the dog park. Drive him there. In our car. Here's the keys." The dog park is a new experience for me.  All prior pets were exercised in the conventional manner, requiring me to put in as much effort as them and possibly double given I have half as many legs. Added to that most of our prior pets, while nice to me, had little-dog attitudes which could have been problematic in the pack hierarchy of the dog park. I've discovered a whole new world down at the dog park: a social circle based on watching dogs be dogs and a human pecking order based on who's been coming the longest, who spends the most time at the dog park, and a no doubt a whole heap of nuances of which I am, and intend to remain, blissfully ignorant. Surveying the park, protecting against pigeon incursi
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