While Not Working

Roger had to retrace his steps (wheels?), back to Tanunda on Sunday.  Which he did, but not before complaining bitterly about the overnight temperatures in Kapunda which saw him forced to wear his puffer jacket to bed. He was suffering a head cold too, which didn't help.   Back over the hill.   There were a few bumpy push-your-bike bits along the Mawson but that was merely healthy exercise in the end. In Tanunda the party had ended, the RV club had gone home, and he had neither sweeties, $3 beers, or food trucks to sustain him. Oh well, pub foraging it was again. Cold mornings notwithstanding, the weather gods blessed him on Monday. The forecast rain did not eventuate and he fairly zoomed along with the benefits of both a downhill and a tailwind. Back at home I discovered that in the spirit of sharing and caring he had given his head cold to me before he left. He's nice like that. I had my own adventure anyway: I had to drive up to Scott Creek to pick someone up so I we

 Well, I only got home from my mini-tour two weeks ago and what does Roger do but pack up his bicycle and take himself off, leaving me and the dog at home to go to the dog park on our ownsomes. I guess I can't complain, seeing I did the same thing a scant fortnight ago and summer is breathing down our necks, bringing temperatures that will make cycle touring sweaty and unpleasant. He left on Friday in the rain and caught the train to Gawler, where he jumped on the rail trail all the way to Tanunda.  The weather behaved surprisingly well, timing showers to coincide with cafes such that he had no option other than to seek shelter and sacrifice himself for coffee and snacks.  The unpowered section of the Tanunda Caravan Park was deserted, although the same couldn't be said of the rest of the park which was filled by the Adelaide RV Club who had based themselves there for an extremely well fed good time and lots of jolly fund-raising activities for charity. Roger, poor soul, had to

 I don't know if anyone has noticed, but I like to go for a bike ride occasionally.  I came to bike riding late(er) in life, and my first 'proper' bicycle was a little Trek which was, and still is, a pleasure to ride. I still have the Trek, mainly for purposes of nostalgia. Back when one little Trek was enough...   After riding the Trek for a while I succumbed to the bicyclist's disease, which is that the ideal number of bicycles is one more than however many you have, and I bought another bicycle.  A Giant, this time.  The Giant was an awful bike: the brakes always rubbed, gear cables snapped with monotonous regularity, it rolled at the speed of cold molasses.  We persevered, the Giant and I, but it was never going to be a forever relationship although I have to concede we had some good times together. We made it all the way to the Head, the source of the Condamine River, the waters of which, eventually, flow out to sea through the Murray mouth at Goolwa. The Giant too

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

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

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