16/05/2026 Yanda Campground to Bourke

 

Red sky at night, shepherd's delight.  Red sky at morning, shepherd's warning.

I wasn't a shepherd but I considered myself warned.  Time to get up and moving.

Rain was forecast and would fall very conveniently while I was working in Bourke, and hopefully not in such quantities that it could close any of the roads I planned to ride on.  I was excited about the rain: I hoped that it would put a little colour into the dessicated landscape through which I'd been riding.

As I was packing up a ute roared into the campground.  Two hefty men and a dog jumped out and rapidly set up swags, one on each of the tables in the day-use shelter.  They took off their boots (just the men, not the dog), jumped into their swags, and by the time I wheeled out of town the swags were snoring and I had no idea where the dog was, but it was whining.  I rode the long way out so as not to disturb them.

The tabletop snorer's camp. Now why didn't I think to sleep on my table.  Because I had gear exploded all over it, that's why.

Leaving.

Having given me a taste of sealed road yesterday, the road reneged and delivered just enough roughness to keep me concentrating.  Add to that the traffic (at least one/hour!) and I could no longer meander all over the road to find the smooth spots.  Then the wind arrived and roared into my face while the trees all shifted themselves out of the wind's way to allow it to do its dastardly work unimpeded.

Some sadist ran over the whole road with one of those studded rollers and then ran off sniggering because there was not a smooth patch left on the road and any cyclist coming along would have the teeth rattled right out of their head.

A few kangaroos lolloped across the far horizon, but otherwise I grumbled my way through an uneventful head-windy day when my legs had decided that they needed a holiday, thank you very much.  To add to my woes I had fine-tuned my food just a little bit too finely, and all I had for snacks was muslei bars.  I munched my way through enough muslei bars to prevent bonking, and now I'm over muslei bars for the moment.  I think I'll cry if the Bourke IGA doesn't have gingernuts.

The bitumen finally arrived 10km out of town as I passed large earth tanks and the channels of irrigation systems.

In 1896 the Government started an experimental farm at Pera Bore, just north of Bourke, growing stone fruits, citrus, and cotton.  I had no idea that irrigation had been in place in Bourke for that long!

Just a blue-sky fluffy-white-cloud kind of day.  Pity about the wind.

Then I turned left, said goodbye to quiet little Louth Road, and played with the big trucks for the last 4km on Kidman Way.

Finally!

Bourke was quiet on a Saturday afternoon.  The Port of Bourke Hotel gave me a secure place to park my bicycle and a cosy little room up twenty steps (I counted, while my tired legs carried everything up).

I rang Daughter, who was still alive and awaiting news of how long she would be incarcerated, and what the plan was.

I rang Roger, who proudly declared that he had bought a bicycle for $15, in order to trial the compatibility of a step-through design with his mischievious back.

Home for a night or four: Port of Bourke Hotel.

I went to the IGA.  They had gingernuts.

I was happy.