While Not Working

Sydney was bleary-eyed when we met over the kettle in the morning. "Did you hear the party last night?" she asked. "It went on until the wee hours." I had to admit that with two long days of cycling in my legs I had slept like a baby. I had a vague recollection of music and a glimpse of a fire drum and happy drunks when I got up for my own wee hour of the morning, but otherwise my night had been uneventful. I spent the day in Tilpa waiting for phone calls from Daughter's hospital, where she had landed after a routine test had some not quite routine results. I didn't want to be out of phone range when important information might come in.  I met all the locals while I was waiting. Dolly the pub cat. "I'm allergic to cats," said Crystal, co-owner of the pub. "But the staff begged me for a pub cat, and they're such good staff I couldn't say no." Tito's goat, Patricia. Tito was the young french cook. "What happens to ...

 My early start didn't happen: I waited for the sun to thaw me out before I even started the breakfast/packing up routine. The colours of the flood plain changed from yesterday's ride. The line of trees marking the river danced back and forth, at times tantalisingly close and at times far away across plains furred with black clumps of tumbleweed that piled itself against the fences. The black tumbleweed, also known as hairy panic or roly poly, turns black when it dies. It blows away with the wind and under the right conditions can cause huge drifts against fences and buildings. Distance markers marched by at 10km intervals, not that they did me any good because they counted down the distance to Bourke and that was too far away for me to think about. All I wanted was a count down to Tilpa. Finally! A Tilpa sign. Home for the night: Tilpa Pub.   Unlike the earlier river towns, Tilpa had not weathered the end of the river trade well. There was no trace left of the bustling por...

I woke to a southerly wind roaring in the trees and rolled out barely past sunrise, so excited was I by the prospect of moving again and with a tailwind to boot. Ready to roll. I had 20km under my belt when the admin staff from Council rang.  "The road's open!" they declared.  I thanked them politely and neglected to mention that I was already well on the way. I don't care, I'm going anyway, I know the sign is wrong. The road was (mostly) perfect, hitting the sweet spot between mud and dust, hard-packed by the few vehicles that had preceded me. I spent the day on the flood plain, pushed along by a tailwind, mobs of emus and kangaroos crossing the road ahead of me but never close enough for a decent photo.  For the first time at lunch I had to sit in the sun rather than the shade to keep warm, the south wind having come all the way from Antarctica.  My little fly friends had cooled down considerably and for half the day I enjoyed cycling without a fly net. Leopard ...

Wilcannia was the part of bicycle touring that happened in between riding the bicycle.  No bicycle riding happened at all, other than a quick spin out to East Tilpa Road and back again.  Still here. The day dawned cold and clear with a bright southerly breeze, perfect for drying out roads. In between regularly checking the road status I explored Wilcannia and conducted quality control sampling at the cafe.  The stretch of river on which Wilcannia lay was originally inhabited by the Barkindji, 'people of the river', the descendants of whom continue to live in Wilcannia. Colonisation was not kind to the Barkindji and Wilcannia is considered one of the most socially disadvantaged postcodes in NSW. The town was an alcohol free zone, so all the pubs were closed and shuttered. The Community Grocery Store opened every day apart from when it didn't.  The Council Chambers housed admin staff who couldn't tell me why the road was closed or when it would open. On Tuesday afterno...