The Amy Gillet Bikeway (Again).

Every year the Amy Gillett Bikeway holds an event to coincide with the Fringe, encouraging everyone to ride their bicycle (or horse) or walk along the trail while the small towns along the way put on parties and events. We've gone to every one since we lobbed into South Australia just shy of 3 years ago.

Roger, still suffering the after effects of the spicy cough, stayed home to pat the cat and conserve his energy for a concert that evening. I headed out early, fully expecting the trail to be quiet (South Australians not really getting started on anything until at least lunchtime), giving me a quick run up to Mount Torrens and time to stop at all the festivities on the return trip.

The first (rather obscure) art installation along the way.

In a very un-South-Australian turn of events everyone had come out early to join the party. Scores of children and families pedaled up and down and round in circles towing kiddie trailers and riding big bikes, little bikes, strider bikes, tagalongs, electric bikes, tricycles, and anything else that had wheels and could be pedaled. Fast cyclists zoomed past, slow cyclists puttered along, and flocks of teenagers migrated from food truck to food truck with detours via impromptu jumps and bouts of racing on the downhill bits.

The entertainment along the way had considerably upped its game since last year. Barely 5km into the ride there I was at Woodside, dithering over whether it was too early to stop for coffee and a fresh donut (the verdict? Never too early for coffee and fresh donuts!)

Oh dear, decisions!  And so early in the day too...

I watched little girls in tutus riding pink bicycles on the BMX track while I ate my donut, and then a nice man from the RAA pumped up my tires. Showing great strength of character I walked past all the other tempting food stalls, only stopping briefly to chat to SAPol and confirm that it is legal to ride a bicycle on the footpath in South Australia. Phew! I've been within the law the last two years, good to know.

Between Woodside and Charleston I pedaled past woodland and irrigated dairy paddocks, through cuttings loaded with drifts of eucalyptus bark and dry gum leaves fluttering to the ground. Out in the dry paddocks cattle waited patiently for supplemental feed and grass lay dormant waiting for winter rain. The air smelt strongly of dry eucalyptus and the deep piles of bark and leaf litter spoke of a still-present bush fire risk.

Streamers of bark dangled from all the trees.

Paddocks were grazed bare, but the cattle were fat and waited patiently for their next installment of food.

Across the way dairy herds reveled in special treatment, enjoying lush green irrigated pastures.

Charleston's entertainment was strongly aimed at the kiddie demographic: a petting zoo did a roaring trade and the swings in the playground worked overtime. A solo food van did its best to keep up with demand. "We had three vans booked," the Council worker told me as she filled my bottles with complimentary water. "The other two didn't turn up. What can you do?" 

I sat under the tree and ate my arancini balls, listening to a skilled quartet of brass, clarinet, and banjo. They sang harmonies and played their little hearts out all, I am sorry to say, to an audience more interested in fluffy chickens and baby goats. I clapped as loud as I could to give them encouragement.

 

On the long uphill to Mt Torrens I stopped to photograph my favourite tree for the third year running.

I like this tree.  Every year I take lots of pictures.  This year it was charmingly decorated with cattle.

See?

Just in case you had not yet appreciated what a fantastic tree it is.

Every other year Mt Torrens has been a bit of a disappointment, a lack luster stop for free water and a desultory cold coffee from an unenthusiastic food van before heading back down the hill to where all the excitement is. 

Well, this year Mt Torrens got its act together and did it in style. A busy little market tempted me with an array of home made goods from fresh honey to rag rugs. Children played organised games on the oval, sausages sizzled and pancakes, slathered in ice cream, begged to be eaten. The Adelaide Recumbent Riders made their portly way from food van to food van, happily Arring like the jolly pirates they proclaimed themselves to be (Adelaide Recumbent Riders Arr, geddit?)

But a small selection of the bevy of bicycles at Mt Torrens.

 

I resisted the pancakes (already had a donut) and the rag rugs (no space).  Back down the hill I went past sedate riders even slower than me; past families with various degrees of tantrum; past more fantastic trees; past ruins; and past grape vines showing just a touch of autumn colour.

There is more than one fantastic tree along the Amy Gillett bikeway.

Autumn is on the way.

What kind of building was this, built as it was into a hollow?  I have no idea.

These riders pedaled so slowly that I could overtake them.  I was quite excited: usually I'm the one being overtaken.

The music quartet had moved to Charleston by the time I got there, playing to a (slightly) more appreciative crowd. The RAA was still busy fixing brakes and providing lectures on the requirement to have brakes that worked, and SAPol was a little bored because the Amy Gillett crowd was, on the whole, tediously well behaved. I resisted the siren call of the donut van and pedaled the last 5km back to the car.

A bonus alpaca sighting on the way.

 Back at home Roger and the cat both felt decidedly left out: one because he wasn't well enough to ride his bike and the other because it wasn't allowed outside.  This was very sad for both of them.

I had a good day.