16-18/05/2023 Moisture, Mould, and a Bicycle Ride.

Bang! Something in the back of the car overturned as we drove the winding road up to the Cape Byron Lighthouse. "Must check that,' I said, and promptly forgot all about it.

We checked into the Tweed Heads Caravan Park and spent two days working, watching the rain pour down outside, and congratulating ourselves on not being in a tent.  Meanwhile in our locked-tight car, the contents of our upturned 4L water bottle slowly dribbled out and soaked the carpet and anything else that wasn't in a dry bag or a box. Then, in our locked-up car, all that moisture turned its energies to mould production.

Not tent weather.

 

I went to get something out of the car and oh my goodness it was putrid! An orgy of unpacking, drying out, and parking with all 5 doors open ensued. Thank goodness that a) the sun came out and b) we had already decided to stay another night (which was free given the parks mid week 'stay 3, 4th one free' policy, bless their little cotton socks).

Smelly car woes.  Oh, and home for several nights, Tweed Caravan Park.

 

Roger, having tweaked his back and spent half of Tuesday untweaking it, had to work on Thursday. This put me in the unusual position of being footloose and fancy free (once the laundry was done) while he worked. Scant metres away the sparkling river ran out to the sea, accompanied by an off road shared path, so without further ado my bike and I rode to Queensland and back again.

Tweed River scenes #1.

 

Tweed River scenes #2.

Tweed River scenes #3.

I started off along the Tweed River, following it all the way to the rock wall where the river met the sea. From there I could see the towers of Surfers Paradise beyond the shark smorgasbord of surfers bobbing in the waves between the rock wall and the headland.

Skyscrapers across the water.

Shark bait.

 

The shared path was pleasant riding on a Thursday in May, the throngs of summer tourists long gone, school children tucked up in class, and workers dutifully working (or pretending to) in their offices. The occasional grey nomad lolled at the open door of their caravan, and tradies clustered at the picnic tables for smoko.

 

No one was swimming.

The border was something of an anticlimax, jammed as it was in the middle of a roundabout, in an arbitrary spot where NSW ended and the glamour and glitz of the Gold Coast started.

 

I pedaled deeper into Queensland, until I ran out of time and turned around to pedal home again. The tide had come in and the wide sand flats in the Tweed had disappeared, a flotilla of cormorants squabbling in the shallow waters of the river.  The car sat empty and forlorn outside our cabin, all its doors open to the sun and wind. I poked my nose in: eau de mould was still apparent even if all was dry to the touch.

Roger had finished work. We went for a walk along the river and watched the sun set over mangroves.

From our cabin,

and beside the river.

Tomorrow, mould or no mould, we go onward.