On the road, mate
New image: the Couldn't Stand the Hair in my Face no More-look and the I Got lotsa Body-look.
We're two Sheilas on the move and we're loving it. Our house is small but has a very efficient fridge, well-stocked food cupboard, sink and tap and two gas hobs for anything from Moroccan chicken to pancakes, which Coups observes me making from our most comfortable double bed, which during the day becomes lounge and dining room in one. And TWO lights - one in the kitchen, one in the Other Room.
Yes, we in our camper van have joined a bevvy of octogenarians with 21st century caravans who move up the west coast of Australia in autumn/winter in search of a bit of warmth. We wonder at the Aussie retirees who've been travelling around the country for three year and love the three ladies from the UK who are doing the route together - each in her own camper van. At a certain age, one needs certain luxuries, n'est pas?
We pick up our camper van from Perth on a Wednesday, spend all of Thursday on a garage ramp waiting for broken speedometer/gear box to be fixed and get fed up, upon which Coups manages the impossible ("We never do this kind of thing, madam") by convincing the rental company to bring us a different van.
So the real trip starts by doing negative kilometrage - we go south while our real destination is Darwin, 4,200km north of Perth. But we have a lovely time - apart from freezing our bits off at night in our un-insulated van - tasting wine, cheese and chocolate in the Margaret River region and watching a road rally in Nannup. And the fun reaches sky-high proportions when we scale a 61m tree (old fire look-out) in a eucalyptus forest.
Up where we belong: having a grand ol' time on the West Coast.
Up a 61m tree
What is wrong with these people?
Australians can lay absolutely no claim to the barbecue champions title. They don't barbecue.
They might call it that, but turning on a gas hob and chucking some snags/battered steaks on a heated metal plate should never be equated to the skillful art of starting, nursing and preparing a fire (And then burning all edibles to a cinder, admittedly in my case, but that's not the point).
The locals have not made a barbie fire for such a long time that the lady in the camp site had not the slightest inkling what I was talking about when I asked whether she sold wood. (Come to think of it, she was bloody stupid.) Virtually nowhere am I allowed to make a fire, and trying to buy a BBQ grid has proved nigh impossible.
Have they become too used to the good, fast, immediate-gratification life, are they more American than they care to admit or, perchance, are they simply lazy? They probably don't barbecue for the same reasons that they need a Drive Thru Liquor Shop, a Drive Thru Coffee Shack, even Drive-Thru Finance.
Yours sincerely, Militantly Disgusted from Tunbridge Wells
Cautious driving
We have not yet had any unfortunate encounters with a kangaroo on the road - apart from having to stop for the one that was trying to make up its mind in the middle of the number one freeway (What was it again - left or right?). They're supposed to be on the move and crossing roads at dawn (at which time we're never on the road) and dusk (when we're often on the road because we didn't get up at dawn). But grissly remains on the verges abound.
The further we drive, the warmer it becomes - we even managed to fit in a bit of sailing in Kilbarri today. Or drifting, really, because we didn't believe the hire man when he said there was no wind. We didn't take kindly to canoeist shouting that we should have hired a kayak instead as he rowed leisurely past us.
But now we have to go. Our campsite has a Bring a Tinnie (beer, I think) and Have a Sizzly Sausage While We Sing Around the Campfire (they actually mean the gas BBQ - 'struth) moment. God help us.
The Pinnacles near Cervantes at dusk
