Wheatfields And Downhills

Thrington Road runs between Moonta and Baskerville, providing a short cut for Moonta-ites to access the highway. I swear the whole population of Moonta decided to drive up Thrington Road last night, all of them roaring past my tent in their noisy 4wds and trucks with their lights on high beam. I slept like a log anyway, even the light from the bright crescent moon couldn't keep me awake.

The plan was to visit Paskeville so that some aspects of the morning routine could be conducted in peace and quiet with porcelain and water. Of course I zoned out on the bike, got distracted by The Acreage (one of those must-be-self-sufficient free camping spots), and got carried away by the tailwind for a while before it occured to me that Paskeville was actually behind me and not in front, and I was going entirely the wrong way. By then it was all too late for my porcelain-based plans: I rode up and down the road dithering but ultimately couldn't bring myself to abandon the the tailwind so off we went, the wind and I, along Green Plains Road towards Port Clinton.

Quiet, early morning start.

I'm on the right road now.

It was nice riding, but not inspiring of photos: wheat, a little bit of lentils, more wheat. Some of the wheat was still green. Three traffics passed me. I rode past farmhouses with no sign of activity, and past occasional ruins.

The road was devoid of suitable places to lean a heavy bicycle should the rider wish to take a break. Just as I resigned myself to a less than suitable lunch spot I found the Kainton Hall and all was right in my world even if the Kainton Hall Committee had closeted (ha!) their porcelain behind locked doors.

I read my book, feasted on peanut butter and crackers, and found a friend. Although I don't think it appreciated the relationship.

Back on the road I looked for the sea which was due to arrive at any time but was tardy in appearance. There was a hill, which was not on my agenda but had to be dealt with nonetheless, and as I crested the top the Gulf St Vincent came in to view and I was rewarded with a fantastic view, a seat, and a last glorious downhill run.

Down time coming.

"I'll put you in a sheltered spot," said the man at the Port Clinton Caravan Park., and proceeded to give me a spot right next to the public amenities in what I firmly believe was a wind tunnel, but looking on the bright side the proximity to the amenities meant that porcelain-related problems should be non-existent throughout my stay. I think this is a good time to drop the porcelain references, actually.

Gulf St Vincent is one of three places in the world (the others being the Gulfs Of Carpentaria and Mexico) where when conditions are right the tide takes a break and doesn't go up or down for a day or two. South Australians, just to be different, refer to this as a 'dodge' tide 

As I sat reading my book and sheltering from the wind an exuberant woman invited me to partake of wine and cheezels at her caravan. Now wine and I don't agree but I partook of water, met some congenial company, and learned about harvesting lentils and raking for blue swimmer crabs. As the afternoon slid away the wine started talking more loudly in the exuberant woman's voice so I made my excuses and went for a walk on the beach instead. The tide was creeping ever so slowly in, pelecans patrolled the waters, and the flats teemed with little birds. 

On the left, unidentified. On the right, a hooded plover? I am open to correction.

We went to bed at the same time, the wind and I, but not before it graciously turned southerly and made grand promises of another tailwind in the morrow. I must say I was glad to sleep without the fuss and flutter of flapping tent around my ears.