23/03/24 I Do Like To Be Beside The Sea Side: Hallet Cove to Moana

I dawdled all day, having not far to go and all day to do it in. Not that it was hard to dawdle, given the long uphill slog from Hallet Cove railway station on the Coast toVines rail trail. Two small boys followed me on a scooter and bicycle, asking all manner of questions and, under the fanciful illusion that my bike had batteries, asking for a tow. They were so interested in my lights that I felt it prudent to cancel my planned stop at Woolworths, not being confident of their ability to keep their sticky little fingers to themselves should I leave the bike unaccompanied while I used the amenities.

Officially on the trail.

The path wound happily upward beside a creek embellished with playgrounds and over run with children and families spending Saturday morning out doors.  I crossed the highway at the high point and ran happily down the hill past Old Reynella

I'd much rather be up here than down there.

Old Reynella is considered the birthplace of the South Australian wine industry.  John Reynell established Reynella farm here shortly after he arrived in the settlement in 1838.  He planted wines and produced the first South Australian commercial wine in 1842.

At Pedlar creek  I abandoned the Coast to Vines trail and  followed an adventurous little path beside the creek toward the sea. 

A branch path took itself off across the creek: I let it go and continued on my side, not wanting to have to push back up the hill when the path petered out which I was sure it would.

My path ambled happily through a large culvert under Main South road before disappearing altogether,  leaving me to push up the hill and navigate another dodgy road crossing only to discover that I should have been on the other side of the creek all along.  Oh well.

I do like a good culvert, especially when it's big enough to feel like a tunnel.

And finally,  the sea.

Noarlunga beach was colourfuly dressed with gazebos, flags, and hundreds of people with surf skis and brightly coloured rash vests.  A loudspeaker implored contestants to gather for their events, to move their surf skis as the tide was coming in, and to present themselves for medal presentations.  Coffee vans and food trucks lined the shared path along the cliff top, doing a brisk trade to spectators and contestants alike. I had a long chat with a fellow who fondly reminisced on his long-ago bicycle trip through Europe: a trip from which he came home with a wife, so I didn't think I could top that as a souvenir! Having dispensed with bicycle memories my friend moved on to a detailed appraisal of the  surf carnival progress, most of which I had no hope of remembering other than that Grange was winning by a considerable margin and he wasn't from Grange.  Good on Grange, I guess.

Beyond the surf carnival the beaches were quiet, the sea unbelievably blue. 

I bounced over headlands with wide ocean views,

past cliffs layered with white and red,

and past the Onkaparinga River mouth.

 

The path was all downhill from the lookout over the Onkaparinga Rinver and the headwind, disrupted by the cliff, was hardly discernible.  Out on Moana beach numpties in 4WDs used big engines to compensate for their deficiencies in other areas (social skills, guys, social skills!  What were you thinking?) while numpties with all manner of mullets cheered them from the esplanade. I took myself off to the Moana Caravan Park where I was relegated to unpowered camping with all the Germans who travelled in flocks of camper vans and were (like me) too cheap to pay for power, preferring to plug their gizmos in at the camp kitchen when we had our morning cups of tea (or whatever Germans have) in the morning.

Home for the night: Moana Beach Caravan Park.

  A cold breeze rolled in on sunset and soon sent me, wearing all my wardrobe, to my sleeping bag. Thankfully, all the germans went to bed early too.