The Wind Blows Strong On The Yorke Peninsula

Our house owners made it home in time to rescue their disgruntled cats from starvation and abandonment. We visited them for morning coffee where they proudly showed off their brand new Turkish carpet (not a flying one unfortunately) and told us all about their adventures.  They were remarkably bright eyed and bushy tailed for two mature-aged people who had just spent 48 hours sitting in aeroplanes, interspersed with bouts of panic in airports.

Full of tea and coffee, we waved them goodbye and rolled out of town. We intentionally didn't fill the two-week gap between house sits, deciding instead to go explore the Yorke Peninsula. Back when we made this plan I got all excited and booked two weeks off so that work would not interrupt my explorations.  Then I forgot all about my planned leave until, booking appointments for the next month, I discovered to my delight that I was now on holidays and was quite impressed by the forethought of my past self. I planned to ride as much of the Walk the Yorke as I could, while Roger lolled about in cabins, did his back exercises, and worked (poor soul).

I started at Port Clinton, riding south into a stiffening breeze.

The tide was out: swimming was not an option.

And I'm off...

I met two cycle tourists who were going the same way as me, but faster because although fully loaded they had electric bikes. 

Off they went, lickety split with pedal assist.

 

I met them at the end of the road, standing in confusion at the bottom of a flight of steps, up which the Walk the Yorke sign pointed.  None of us had realised yet that although the Walk the Yorke (let's call it the WTY from here in) advertised itself as both a walking and cycling path, it didn't quite deliver when it came to cycle-friendly infrastructure.  Added to which the signage for the WtY was both erratic and sometimes ambiguous.  I went up the hill anyway, just because the sign told me to, and was rewarded with a sweet little path that wandered  along the top of the cliffs, through shrubs that sheltered me from the wind. It was all very pleasant apart from a keyhole entry onto a little bridge. I had to stand the bike up on its back wheel to get through that one and I think my touring friends got that far and went back to the pub at Clinton, because that was the last I saw of them.

Humph.

And then this.  Double humph.

At least I was going down, not up.  And I wasn't loaded.  And it did give me an opportunity for epic bicycle stair posing.

Down by the sea I passed wombat holes and saw the tracks where a wombat had wandered happily through the mud.

I didn't see any wombats though.

 

In no time at all I was hanging out in the park in Price, eating my banana and filling my water bottles.   Heading out of Price, the Cheetham Salt works distracted me from the battering head wind. Mountains of white salt glittered in the sun, surrounded by pink crystalisation ponds.

Salt stockpiles,

and pink salt lakes,

and industrial salt machinery.

 

And then the salt was gone, and it was just me and the wind and the wheat.  I battled the wind down Black Swan Rd and didn't see any swans. Then I battled the wind down Tiddy Widdy Beach Road, but not a Tiddy Widdy did I see. 

Back on the cliff top path the wind was stronger, disrupted by the cliffs to blow up, down, sideways, every which way with such strength that at the first opportunity I bailed to the bitumen and left the stunning views behind in favour of traveling in a straight line.

Finally the silos of Ardrosson came into view.  Good!  I was over the wind.

I ate takeaway Chinese at the Anzac memorial in Ardrossan while waiting for Roger to pick me up. The wind howled and tried to blow my dinner away, and some random teenagers got a fright when they slouched into my picnic shelter and found me there. Although how they managed to not notice a generously built woman in high visibility orange until they tripped over her was quite beyond me but they were, after all, teenagers.

Roger brought me back to our salubrious, if old, cabin at the Port Vincent Caravan and Cabin Park. We overlooked both the ocean and a very tired mini golf course, and we were the only occupied cabin.

"Make sure to park in your spot," said the Caravan Park manager.  So we did. It was difficult in the crowded car park, but we managed.

 

The sun set over the Yorke Peninsula, and the lights of Adelaide glittered across the waters of the Gulf St Vincent.  The wind howled and rattled the windows in our little budget cabin.  We had to walk to the ablutions blocks for all ablution needs, so I skipped my night time cup of tea in favour of not wandering out in the cold night to the loo.

Much as I like camping, it's nice to be in a cabin when the wind blows hard.