25/03/24 Banana Dramas: Mclaren Vale - Willunga - McLaren Vale

Back when I started this little adventure I bought two bananas and on the first day I ate one.  On the second day I looked for my second banana and couldn't find it.  After a little search I gave up, thinking that I had a) eaten it too and not remembered doing so or b) left it behind somehow.  The banana, forgotten, lurked in the side pocket of my pannier through many bumps and bashes and seven days of hot sunshine.

In the bright Mclarenale morning I unzipped the side pocket of my pannier and stuck my hand in, confidently reaching for my hand cream and meeting instead a liquefied banana which had, until I poked it, been precariously contained within its black and fragile skin.  When all the squawking and flapping of hands and desperate seeking for water and paper towels was over I had a considerably cleaner pannier, a considerably cleaner rain jacket (which had been snuggled up to the banana during the process of decomposition), and paranoia related to stepping on a random piece of post-banana sludge which I may have overlooked during the clean up process.

Banana dramas aside, I had a lovely time on this my last riding day.  The weather, albeit a bit chilly in the early morning, was perfect for riding.  I didn't have to pack up, merely riding my unloaded bike which felt exceptionally nimble when relieved of heavy panniers.  I followed a side leg of the trail out to McLaren Flat,

 

 looping around the caravan park where my little tent sat happily amongst the gum trees,

and ambling along paths and narrow little roads shaded by grand and gracious trees with Pedlar Creek an ever present companion.  Grape vines marched up the hills on either side of the valley but the road to McLaren Flat was (as per the name) flat.

I took a quick loop around the not-very-wet wetlands and up the main street of McLaren Flat, magpie sound track playing in the background.  There wasn't a lot in McLaren Flat, just a pub that doubled as a grocery store, a small school, and a collection of houses the inhabitants of whom must spend all day somewhere else.  I turned around and enjoyed the little roads and birdsong all the way back to McLarenvale where I hung a left and followed the Coast to Vines to its official terminus in Willunga.

The morning was busy on the Coast to Vines Trail.  Peletons of geriatric cyclists, dressed in bright colours and riding electric bikes, zoomed past me with various degrees of "Good Morning!"  Serious Cyclists, head down and bum up, didn't deign to acknowledge lesser mortals such as me, as I chugged up the hills and coasted on the downhills.  Walkers with dogs and teenagers on skateboards kept everyone on their toes.

People with electric motors always overtake me.

The trail ended without fanfare in Willunga, passing the old railway station where unidentified pieces of (presumably railway) machinery loitered under the trees.

I stopped at the rose garden and made it all the way to the centre without crossing under an archway.  Yay for me.

 

Emboldened by my amazing (ha!) success, I went for a little walk up the main street of Willunga which coincidentally ended at the bottom of the Willunga Hill up which the Serious Cyclists set off with intensity and purpose.  Not me though, I didn't have that much purpose in me so I drank my coffee and mentally prepared for the onerous 8km downhill ride back to camp.

Grape vines in the main street of Willunga.

Vineyards with the hills of the Fleurieu Peninsula in the distance.

Back at camp the park had established an inadvertent water feature which provided a lot of entertainment with park management running in circles, park maintenance men practicing blame-shifting, campers who happened to be plumbers circling with professional interest, and everyone else rushing to use the toilet and fill up their kettles before the water was turned off.  

I do like a fountain feature.

 

While I was away I had gained new neighbours in the spaces beside me. Linda arrived in a taxi after her rented caravan was delivered to the site next to me.  She told a sorry tale of losing her rental accommodation and moving to the caravan, subsequently being 'encouraged' to move out of the big-city parks to make space for the holiday crowd paying holiday prices. Together Linda and I worked out how to pop up the top of her caravan and secure her awning, and I developed an appreciation of some of the habits that could create difficulty for Linda in securing more permanent accommodation.

Barely had I said goodbye to Linda than I met Mr and Mrs, also part of the tide of caravanners sloshing around between caravan parks while working out what to do next.  They shared their strong views on everything: politics, religon, the youth of today, the raising of children in tune with nature and without chemicals.  Eventually I pleaded hunger and left to make my dinner which I ate behind my tent in peace and quiet, hiding from my new neighbours.  

No neighbours in here.

As the sun set skiens of corellas and cockatoos spooled across the sky, providing a sound track to the evening. The water came back on in time for evening showers, much to the relief of sweaty cyclists like me.

The last job of the day was to put in place my banana management plan, the aim of which was to never again have a unacknowledged banana demise under my watch. I ate my last banana for dessert and went to bed secure in the knowledge that there would be no banana-related dramas in the morning.