Bakery Auto-detecting Bicycle

 My bicycle has a serious problem. It seeks out bakeries and then forces me to visit them. I am powerless to resist.

I think it just likes posing under pretty umbrellas

It waited impatiently while I packed up my camp at the Murbko Lutheran and did battle with voracious ants. I ate my boring breakfast of crackers and peanut butter all the while a bicycle whispered in my ear of coffee and cake.

It huffed and puffed as I stopped at yet another lookout to take yet another slew of river photos.

Take one of me, too!

It grumbled as I came to a halt in the Morgan Conservation Park, seduced by clouds of Darling lilies whose scent and sight took me right back to my childhood on the flood plain of the Condamine.

It reluctantly dawdled along the access track past National Park campgrounds and river shacks full of people packing up their weekends and heading home on a sunny Sunday midday. And it complained about having to share the ferry with a ute, a barking dog, and yet another taciturn ferry man.

My bicycle was finally happy when I parked it under a purple umbrella and partook of coffee and cake whilst gazing out across the green parklands of the Morgan Historic Port precinct and talking with a young policewoman who was working at 'community liaison' via coffee and cake at the local Cafe on her Sunday shift.

My bicycle was not happy to be locked securely at the Tourist Information centre. "Don't be silly " I said. "Why would I carry this big heavy lock around if I didn't use it every now and then? And Morgan's an important place. They built the railway here to meet the paddle steamers and people and freight went every which way. It was a big deal."

"Theres a bakehouse up at the highway," said my bicycle. I ignored it and went off to explore the historic Port with its crumbling rail infrastructure, disintegrating wharf, and PS Canelly under renovation at its mooring.

The wharf had seen better days.

There were notices in the IGA window seeking volunteers to crew the Canelly. Or you could just volunteer to chop wood for it. I know which one I'd prefer.

Here she is again.

After all the exploring I checked into the Morgan Riverside Caravan Park where the back window of my cabin looked out across the levee bank to the river. "I want to come inside," said my bicycle, as I locked it to the sturdy cabin steps and rearranged furniture for working tomorrow.

I let it sulk outside while I walked down to a convenient picnic table to watch the ferry shuttle back and forth as evening fell. Clouds of corellas wheeled over the water and the day's final jet skis came home to berth. Most of the shacks were shuttered and quiet, their owners gone back to their real lives somewhere else.

I might bring my bicycle inside when I retire for the night. After all I don't want it to get stolen or how would I find my way to the bakehouse should attending bakehouses become a necessity? Which is likely.