I Want To See Wombats

Our new home owner pointed to the trees visible from the kitchen window, fringing wheat fields with beyond them the quiet grey sea. "There's wombats down there. You'll see them on his afternoon walk."

I got quite excited. Its close to 40 years since I saw wombats in the wild and even then most of them had been skittled by cars, so they didn't count.

But let's start at the beginning.

Black Point turned on a fantastic sunset on our final morning.

 

We left in good time and then, in our usual style, went back to retrieve the breakfast goods which we had left behind in the cupboards. Our new dog greeted us with embarrassing displays of affection, destroying any illusions of guarding his property.

Walk me.  Feed me.  You can take the silverware, I don't care.

Port Julia boasted a permanent population of 59 scattered amongst its 159 dwellings.  We were surrounded by shuttered and empty houses. Down at the end of the street the gravel track of the Walk The Yorke meandered along the narrow strip of bush land between the cliff edge and the road.  At regular intervals wooden staircases, some more rickety than others, gave access to the beach.

It was a low-tide beach only.

Port Julia's shacks could more correctly be called holiday homes and boasted a substance and structure that had been noticeably absent in Black Point. They clung robustly to any spot where the cliffs gave way to access to the sea.  The jetty and the Red Shed were leftovers from the days before roads, when ketches were the primary means of transport for both people and goods throughout the St Vincent and Spencer gulfs.

Port Julia from the lookout.

South of Port Julia the shacks and beach houses of Dipper Lane clustered where a gully gave access to the sea.

I took Dog for his afternoon walk, all eyes (mine anyway) out for wombats. He was all business, full steam ahead with bushes to sniff and trees to water. I was all alert for any sign of wombats: an excavated hole, a footprint, a poo, anything would do. 

Not a sign of a wombat.

Sheep were a poor substitute.

 

Singing honey eaters swarmed in the trees, wagtails flittered along the fence, and I did not step aside from my wombat seeking mission to photograph a single feather.  Not that it did me any good.  Not a single wombat crossed my path.

In bitter disappointment, bereft of wombat sightings, I allowed Dog to lead me home and demand his dinner. 

And then I tucked him into bed, because he's really a big softie even if he looks tough.