A Car, A Bus, A Bicycle.

Early in the morning I locked my bicycle to the racks at the front of Wallaroo's supermarket and, with great trepedation, left it to the tender mercies of the passers-by in order that I would have a way to get the 8km home from Wallaroo to the Cat Manor when I arrived home on the bus from Adelaide.  Not that I particularly wanted to go to Adelaide but a) a post-operative sinus vacuum was calling (and that was every bit as nasty as it sounds) and b) Roger needed the car so he could get his own self up to Wallaroo once Big Fluff's owners got home from long golf and gallivanting.

The drive across the top of the Yorke featured wide open paddocks of ripe wheat and a stunning view out over the top of the Gulf St Vincent as I came down from the hills and headed toward Port Wakefield. In true South Australian style there was nowhere to pull over to look at the view.

I made the best of whatever photo opportunities presented themselves. 

 

In Port Wakefield I discovered to my horror that the pepperina trees which I had always assumed were native to Australia were in fact evil interlopers from South America. Between that and listening to a podcast about the "Acclimatisation Societies" that in the 1800s were hell bent on introducing as many English birds, animals and plants to Australia as they possibly could, I began to wonder how any native species had managed to survive at all.

The pepperina tree at Port Wakefield is over 150 years old and boasts an information plaque which manages to say nothing at all about the tree other than that it is not native to Australia, and it's old.

 

Roger met me at Big Fluff's door, protected by a white ball of fluff which tried to impersonate a rottweiler. The quasi-cat had bonded fiercely with Roger and was honour bound to protect him from strangers such as me, but it was very difficult to be afraid of an animated cottonwool ball, even if it did make a lot of noise. Big Fluff came out to say hello, rolled his eyes at the quasi-cat, and retreated to the garage. I can't say I blamed him, either.

I am a fearsome animal.  Cross me at your peril.

Having left the car with Roger I cast myself upon the vagaries of Adelaide buses to visit the doctor for sinus-sucking purposes, and then explored the city while I waited for my bus back to Wallaroo.

Busker with trumpet backing.

Mall pigs.

Dappled shade and old stone.

A young lady watched me as I drank a cup of tea at the Central Market.

 The Yorke Peninsula Coach was gratifying large, with a driver harrassed and flustered by tech failures.  Only three of us had heeded the website's entreaties to book tickets ahead of time: the rest turned up and attempted to pay with small change or a variety of cards which didn't scan in the non-working tech.  Running out of time, we left with a tetchy driver and a collection of passengers taking turns on the bus driver's phone, laboriously providing their bank details to the admin staff back at head office.  

Riding the bus was fun.  I didn't have to concentrate on driving and could enjoy the view from higher up.  We wandered through small communities and acres of greenhouses on our meandering exit from Adelaide.

Some greenhouses had seen better days.

The community of Two Wells grew up around two aboriginal waterholes which provided a reliable source of fresh water.  The wells are preserved but the community now relies on a pipeline for its water.

Once we left Adelaide the bus displayed a flexible attitude to bus stops.  If nobody was at a stop the bus went right on by, and the passengers on the bus tended to sidle up to the driver and ask questions like "Can you drop me off before we get to Kadina?  Evans Road, just up from the pine tree?" "No worries!" said the driver, and so we sailed along merrily blasting past our designated stops and pausing at random intersections so people could get off.  It was all very congenial and good-natured.

We sailed across an ocean of wheat, with the waters of the Gulf St Vincent off to the south-east.

But wait, there's more.. wheat.

 By the time we got to the Wallaroo Service Station I was the last person on the bus.  "Where do you want to be dropped off?" asked the driver.  Which sounded like a trick question because I had booked under the impression that we had a designated stop at the Wallaroo Museum, but now I wondered if I could say something like "Well, can we pick up my bike and then you can drop me at North Beach?" because that was how it seemed to work for everyone else.

I didn't though.  I was dropped off at the designated stop outside the Wallaroo Museum and discovered to my delight that my bicycle was not only still locked to the racks outside the supermarket but appeared to be untouched and still had all its wheels and other necessary bits.

A bike, a boat, a beach.

I rode my bicycle home beside the sea and paid penance to the cats, who had been left alone all day and demanded compensation.

I'll leave you with the sound of Grandma, demanding a lap on which to sit.