Encounters in Clayton Bay

 We spent 5 nights in the boat house cabin in Clayton Bay Caravan Park. 

Roger watched black swans and pelicans float on the waters of the lake as he worked, while I enjoyed a view over the caravan park where grey nomads wandered back and forth from the ablutions block and a round little boy rode a strider bike between the caravans.  He zoomed up beside me when I went for a walk after work.  "Hello!" he said,  "I remember you!"  Which was slightly confusing because I most definitely didn't remember him.  "What are you doing?" 

"I'm taking a photo of the sunset."

"Can you take a photo down here?"  He scooted down to the waterside and began arranging himself and his bike for a photograph.  I quickly scarpered while he wasn't looking.  I don't like to disappoint small round children, but I also don't like to take photos of small children without first discussing it with their parents and I didn't want him to find out what cabin I was in and decide to come and visit me, something which seemed entirely possible for a forward little child such as him.

Small boy not included.

 

My need to avoid small round children was helped by me spending most of my time out of the caravan park when I wasn't working.  I rode my bike beside the lake from Clayton Bay to Milang, taking photos of birds and late-season lambs along the way. 

Looking for its mother who was, unfortunately, on the other side of the fence.

 

Whistling kite, feeding on a galah.

While in Milang we attended the Biggest Morning Tea at the old butter factory, refurbished by a dedicated team of volunteers into a function centre/museum/2nd hand book store.  We duly paid our donation and partook of mountains of scones and other delicacies along with meeting the locals ("Milang-utangs!" said one of the older residents.  "We're called Milang-utangs!").  We played a few silly games and listened to a very earnest Nutrimetics lady who informed us that her creams and potions could reverse the ageing process by 10 years in 24 hours, and then we had to leave early in order to make a token effort at unpacking and sorting our storage shed.  I donated my raffle tickets to my brand new friend June, who had lived in Milang for 50 years "Came here from England when I was 30, the kids have all left and my hubby's dead but I'm not moving!"

Butter factory details: Milang-utangs not pictured.

Back in the boathouse cabin we watched the sunset reflected in the lake as pelicans and cormorants flew of to their nighttime roosts.   The round little boy had moved on and I felt free to check out the swapping library in the laundry (terrible selection of books) and attempt to use the free Wifi in the camp kitchen (not very successfully).  While I was there an elderly couple came in and were horrified to find that their Coles thermal bag full of steaks and BBQ meats had disappeared from the fridge.  Horror was expressed by all (me and a young couple making their dinner) and much sympathy was given.  The elderly couple noted that there was a security camera above the fridge and stated their intention to check with management the following day in an attempt to track down the dastardly meat thief. Both they and the young couple left and I had a moment's peace with the faulty wifi before the male half of the young couple popped his head in the door, a most distressed look on his face.  

"Have you seen them?  The ones whose meat got stolen?"

Indeed I had not.  Why?

"We stole the meat!" He cried.  "Their bag was the same as ours and we were walking back to camp and I asked my wife how she managed to carry the three bags over and she said she only had two bags and we realised we stole the meat!  By accident I swear!   The bags are identical!"  He ran over to the fridge and stuffed the stolen bag back onto the shelf.  "I've got to go and find them but they said they're in a caravan and there's so many caravans out there! You know the worst thing about this?" Anguish was written all over his face. "We're vegetarian!  We don't eat meat!"

Off he went, and the camp kitchen was quiet again apart from the gentle humming of the fridge. 

In the morning we packed the car and left, stopping in the park where a man sat under a tree and played smooth jazz on a saxophone.  He was practicing for his retirement, he said.  When the time came he would travel around the country in a caravan and while his wife went walking he would sit under trees in parks and play his saxophone.  They had hired a caravan and come to Clayton Bay for the weekend to see if the plan was as good in practice as it was in theory. 

The thing about traveling is you never get to know how the story ends.  I will never know if the young couple found the old couple and meat-related reparations and apologies were made; if June won big with my raffle tickets; if the man with the saxophone bought his own caravan; or if the small round boy got anyone to take his photo down by the lake.

Such is life.