So does Steven Case sing, a local musician with a wide repertoire, at Lake Argyle caravan Park, the Kimberley, Western Australia, to kids jumping in front of the stage and a benevolent audience of parents sipping cool beers. So much joy under the stars, in that easy-going Australian way.
I never knew it was one of AC/DC's (accadacca, in Aussie slang) and that they are Australian. Not until I arrived in Melbourne weeks later and saw a lane named after the band, close to Swanston street where the 1976 clip was filmed. There you go. Sets you in the mood. Just imagine a different landscape, wide, rugged and dry.
It sure is a long way to the 'top end' and, indeed, to anywhere from there at all.
Earlier that day, on August 11th, we had walked the Joe Creek loop, 10 km from the Victoria River roadhouse, on the Victoria Highway and had returned to the truck through golden sizzling grasses swaying in the warm breeze.
Later, after cruising another 5 hours, we had crossed the quarantined Northern Territory border into Western Australia, leaving there whatever fruit and veg we hadn't eaten to avoid the spread of pests and diseases into the wild. We had pressed on and arrived just in time for an intensely longed for dip in Lake Argyle Infinity Pool and a boat tour.
Created by the Ord River dam, Lake Argyle is classified as an inland sea and is about 18 times the size of Sydney harbour. It is a fantastic water supply for the area, is rich in fish life and home to tens of thousands of fresh water crocs (freshies), who, in spite of a face full of teeth, do not have jaws strong enough for managing big mammals such as us. They prefer fish. So we are told. Good. That's what I like to hear. We see them basking on the shore, shyly avoiding any close picture-taking approach as we chugchug around a little corner of that wide expanse and admire populations of rock wallabys and wallaroos.
Still... Brenton, our guide, tells us a story: one day, a friend of his was doing backstroke, not seeing, of course, the freshie in his path. He got nipped on the head. Don't hit the freshie.
Of course, he tells us the story after we swim in the lake and after some of us (not I) jump from high up into the cool blue waters.
The skipper, a tall, handsome guy, has a wry sense of humour. He used to be a rigger on tall ships and sailed all around the world. He must be finding it tame on Lake Argyle. That's what I think until I fall under the spell of the most serene sunset. I imagine it more than makes up for ferrying tourists day in and day out...
The bar has closed, the kiddies are in bed, Steven Case has put his guitar away. It is almost full moon that evening and its bright light swallows the stars. When I wake up in the middle of the night, it has set and the sky is sprinkled with an infinity of fairy dust.
So, how did I get there? The day before, on August 10th, at 6h15 am, 3 days after landing from Bali, I am standing on the pavement, at the agreed time and place, in Darwin CBD, waiting to be picked up. I booked at the very last minute a cheap and cheerful tour of the Kimberley, Intrepid Travel. Has the information gone through, I wonder... I watch the dawn slide into day, hear bird songs reaching a pitch and I am still standing (yeah yeah yeah)...
And the truck finally arrives. Not the kind of rattly old van on which I toured the red centre. No, a truck. With air-con. I congratulate myself for having elected not to drive on my own through the wilderness when I realise what it takes to cross the Kimberley. During the 10 days of our trip, I will see a variety of hard core camping contraptions resembling robots from the film Transformers.
On that first day, we stop at Nimitluk National Park to swim at Edith Falls and continue towards Katherine, a first taste of hot dusty landscape. We are plumb in the middle of the dry season and there will be much more baking, rocky, parched nature in the days to come. 'Mass tourism' deplores Brenton, not joking. Mass tourism Northern Territory style : a grand total of 10 of us at Katherine Gorge look-out. I'll have that kind of mass tourism any day.
I realise I have changed in Indonesia. I got used to a more thoughtful rhythm. Australia is pretty laid back but it has a definite First World drive and the tour means to give us our money's worth. On the first couple of days, I'm feeling rushed. There are the swags and the eskies to unload, the vegetable to chop, water to fetch -where is the damn tap- the dishes to wash and to dry. I am just rolling my swag but they already are being loaded onto the roof! Quick! Oh, no! The truck is rumbling and rearing to go and I still need to brush my teeth and use the dunny... run, Lucille, run!
Truck, camp and group dynamics soon settle into a well-oiled balance of stopping to pick up wood for our evening fire, set up a large tarp on the dust for the swags, unfold the tables, unload the gas rings and throw into huge (and heavy) cast iron crockpots the ingredients for rich and filling stews. Note: a swag is a canvas bag that zips on either side and contains a (thin) mattress and a sleeping bag (if needed). Brenton advises us to purchase a pillow. I do just that in Kununurra and it does improve the whole swag experience. On the chilly nights of the dry northern winter, after evenings playing cards, laughing, joking, chatting, listening to next day's program, sitting reflectively or reading by the fire, I burrow into that cosy cocoon, warmly clothed in leggings, socks and sweat-shirt and relish the magic of sleeping under the stars.
I let images of the days flash into my mind, unbidden, as if to impose their magic... cool water holes, craggy cliffs, gums, boabs, the local name for baobabs whose seeds are said to have travelled from Africa to these shores. They look like a Mr Potato Man with legs and arms sticking out and cast a quirky, bare silhouette against the sky (They lose their leaves in the dry season). It's difficult to tell how old they are, as they are hollow, without rings that would help determine their age. Some are probably thousands of years old.
I feel I have so much more inner space and inner peace after hours spent on roads stretching endlessly towards a far horizon. Fatigue wins in the end and I fall into a dreamless slumber.
We're always up at the earliest pink glow of dawn and get brekky going: the first person up lights the stove to boil a large pan of water, someone stands by on toast duty, the Australians (and the Kiwi) sing the praise of Vegemite to the unconvinced European contingent, we gobble cereals, down cups of instant coffee and dream of barista cappuccino (well, I do), get changed in the shower block, when there is one, or in the truck ('Blue Bum' functions as dressing room and drying rack), those with real muscles (not I) reload the eskies (it takes 4 people to struggle them back in) and we are off to another heart-breakingly stunning isolated spot, to another true place of power and wonder.
The Bungle Bungle is indeed one of those... To reach it, we drive through Kununurra (the meeting of big waters) on the Ord river. A word far too long for any non indigenous Australian, it is locally named Kunus (spelling?), thus suffering the same fate as the Salvation Army (Salvos), the relatives (rellies), the avocado (avo) or the eskimo (esky, plural eskies), Australian for ice-box , a very useful, nay essential, part of camping at the top (or the bottom) of down under. Ice is found in all roadhouses, wayside inns and petrol stations. Eskies groan under the weight of the chilled beers that we sip every evening with crackers and dips, in front of a technicolor sunset. Three cheers for Brenton who manages a different flavour of dip for each and every sunset on the trip. The most surreal sunset of them all was at Windjana Gorge, where freshies were dozing a couple of metres away, so blended in the landscape that I had to take a picture of a white heron to finally notice the grinning jaw of the reptile near it...
Kununurra is the main town/city for the next 1800 km. It is an agriculture centre, in the middle of the most high tech irrigation system in the world. There is plenty of water (Lake Argyle) and plenty of space in the flat and wide Ord river valley. Maize, tomatoes, cotton... you name it, it's growing. We stop at a rum distillery for a tasting and at a sandalwood plantation.
The Australian series, Mystery Road, is filmed in the East Kimberley and gives a good feel of the land...
We press on almost due south to Purnuluru national Park to stay a couple of nights in the Bungle Bungle. That will be the most basic of all our camps, with one toilet and a tap and so much hot dust that the skin on the heels of my feet starts to crack. Ah, but there is not a soul in sight on that first night and, on the following evening, we are invited to the next campsite for bush-made doughnuts rolled in cinnamon sugar, an unexpected treat in the middle of nowhere.
Before tackling Picaninny Creek walk, Brenton demonstrates in the sand the geological story of those sandstone hills that emerged 650 millions years ago, from the sea that covered the area.
Distanced by the others, I find myself walking alone at a dreamy pace, entranced, possessed by this primeval mineral landscape...
We stop at Cathedral gorge on the way back, the sort of mysterious place where you just want to lay on your back and gaze in rapt amazement at those soaring cliffs. It's like being held safe in the bowels of the earth... on the previous day, we had slithered through the narrow gap of Echidna chasm in growing darkness, until the red walls narrowed to almost touching point.
If ever there was a lesson in humility, it can be found in this land, where one appreciates one's insignificance...
It is interesting to note that Australia went metric in July 1974 and totally embraced it. No pussyfooting like in another country I won't mention (and neither will I mention the 'B' word) where distances are still in miles, weight still in stones, pounds and suchlike, heights in feet and inches. No half measures here, haha. This is Australia.
In the days to come, on that road, we will be crossing the Gibb and Pentecost rivers, streams and creeks. Some will even have water in them and bridges across. The wet hasn't been very wet last summer and the levels are low everywhere. One of the driest years on record.
It is a long way to El Questro National Park too and we set off almost too late for Emma Gorge after a quick unloading. This is not a path but a litter of rocks. We scrabble onwards in the creeping darkness to reach a pool nestled in an amphitheatre. We splash in the clear waters, our shouts of glee echoing against the looming walls, dripping with moss and bracken. Just us, not another soul. Bats silently zoom over our heads. Magic and a silent walk back with flashlights.
After some long debating, I decided, on the previous day, to not do the whole El Questro Gorge walk. The second part, after the pool, was supposed to be quite challenging. Hum... I might have been able to do it but I did not wish to slow down the long-legged 20 year old antelopes that make up half of the group, nor did I fancy the indignity of having my bum shouldered up a rock wall... So, I enjoyed peaceful moments engrossed in the beauty of this wild gorge and alternated sunning myself and jumping in the cold water. There are worse things in life.
Brenton knows. We know that he knows. So we don't argue when brekky is even earlier than usual and we follow the short trail that leads us, through dense livistonia palms, to Zebedee springs, a series of terraced thermal pools set at the base of sheer cliffs. Yet more staggering beauty and I am not getting blasé. At that stage, we all are ready for a warm bath and this is with a collective sigh of relief that we immerse ourselves in the most gorgeous natural spa, on a bed of fine sand. I grab handfuls of the stuff to try and pumice my poor cracked feet and wallow in the water until I get all pruny. When we leave, more people start have arrived, with excited shrieky kids and a giant inflatable duck. Thank God we were early. Brenton knows.
We stay 2 nights at El Questro and enjoy a spot by the creek at the quiet end of the campground, far from the bar, the music and the conveniences.
But, on the second night, our splendid isolation is broken by a group of bikers, accompanied by a truck that ends all trucks, with all the mod cons for glamping. This is a reward for good service, a incentive from their company, one of them explains to me. They are a friendly lot, all middle-aged, with beer bellies and bald spots. They must have had a long day because, as I trek back from the shower blocks that evening, they've all retired for the night and I find the rest of our group sitting around the fire, barely repressing their mirth at the concerto of snores erupting from the nearby fancy off-the-ground swags (with little mosquito nets).
Every grunting, snorting and whistling sparks ever louder fits of the giggles. It gets worse when one of them, unable to sleep either from all that racket, shouts, 'you ladies are out of order!'. That does it... we roar with laughter.
We do feel a bit guilty when, the next morning, they kindly offer us a platter of sausages full enough to feed us all twice, the leftovers from the pile they barbecued at first light.
There will be Silent Grove camp ground, in the King Leopold Ranges, and the early morning walk to the stunning Bell gorge and waterfall, a place of spirit where not a soul is to be found at 7 am. There will be Manning Gorge where we need to cross the river to start on the track, Tunnel Creek, where crocs wallow in the dark pools... So much untamed, solitary wilderness.
And it is a long way, indeed, between beautiful spots. Once in a while, we veer of the main path and head towards hidden gems or, suddenly, a wide vista unfolds in front of our eyes.
But, most of the time, we sit on the bus (Bonnie and I sprawl at the back), take turns at the front seat to keep Brenton company, chat, snooze, pass around snacks or apples, read our book, kindle, phone, iPad and once in a while stare through the window at dry grass, spindly gums, earth in various shades of ochre and at the cloud of dust we leave behind. We go back to our snack, nap, chat, book, kindle, phone, iPad and a couple of hours later stare through the window at dry grass, spindly gums, earth in various shades of ochre and at the clouds of dust we leave behind. It is slightly more exciting than watching paint dry though I will find it positively thrilling, in retrospect, once I travel down the west coast to Perth.
During the long hours of driving, I get through a few Val McDermid detective stories and read 'Beyond the Black Stump', a Nevil Shute novel set in Western Australia. When we stop at Ellenbrae Station, on the Gibb River road (due south from Drysdale River national Park on the map), I realise that the same kindness, solidarity and sense of community depicted in the book is still alive, the only difference being a slight veneer of technology on the reality of this harsh land.
The station covers 3600 square kilometres (360 000 hectares) but the soil is so poor it cannot sustain more than 4000 heads of English Short Horns. Every few years, when the price of beef is good, they pay for a muster: bull catchers in their 4WD, helicopters, road trains to ferry the cattle to the abattoirs south of Darwin. The meat is processed into hamburgers for the USA. All very gruesome. It is impossible to fence such a large property so the cattle is branded 7XL. An 'X' cannot be disguised, branded over, the manager explains to me with a wink when I purchase the station t-shirt. Ah! and me puzzling over it being an indication of size, haha.
For all shopping needs, there is Kununurra, 300 kilometres to the east, and their closest neighbours are 2 hours away. Since tourism started in the Kimberley in 1990, it has brought means of survival without which this area would be even emptier. Ellenbrae station offers a campground, stockmen cabins and is reputed for the best (and only) scones in the Kimberley. From October to March, during the wet, water flows in and tourists flow out. Going places gets more tricky and life turns inwards.
Ellenbrae Station is an oasis with bore water sprinkled about the homestead and on a lush vegetable patch. The contrast with the parched earth for kilometres around brings it home: I will never again complain when it rains.
I thought we had three days left, but no, it is only two... How did that happen? I am sitting by the fire, and we've polished off one of Brenton's famous stews (I am completely flexitarian on this tour). This is the first night when the moon isn't up as soon as the sun sets and we've identified Jupiter and Saturn. We know we are approaching a big city (Broome, 14, 000 souls) as the campgrounds and hikes are getting busier and I know we definitely are getting closer to civilisation when we are told off on our last evening. 'There are complaints', the janitor tell us. It seems we are laughing too loudly. 'You've woken up the babies'. Babies? Where? We scan the dark, empty expanse. Over there, behind the gums, our nearest neighbours, about 200 metres away. Those little kiddies have sharp ears.
The group celebrates the end of the first part of their journey at the Mangrove hotel as the sun sets over the ocean. Most of the others will continue all the way down to Perth but I have decided to go alone from Broome onwards. Would I really like another 10 days of touring? I have to watch the pennies, that's for sure, but I mostly need some time alone to take it all in.
On August 22nd, my bus leaves for Perth so I have 3 days to enjoy Broome: I sit by the pool at the Kimberley traveller's hostel and write, try different breakfast joints, stacked pancakes with fruit, sourdough, poached eggs, avocados and spinach. Kandice and I go beer tasting at Matso's, Australia's most remote microbrewery. I am pleased to report I prefer the chilli beer to the mango or ginger samples. It really has a kick to it, gasp.
Elisa, Lisa, Grant and I attend Captain Murphy's, the Irish pub, for the highlight of Broome's night life, Tuesday night's Open Mic. It smells and looks like an Irish pub but an Irish pub where most men would have tanned weathered faces, wear shorts and know all the lyrics to Waltzing Matilda. It is rowdy in a good-natured way and I absolutely do not dare perform on stage but Elisa does, for the first time in her life and she is a success. The young lady has guts!
Facts about Broome, apart from it being quite an easy-going, pleasant and welcoming small town, slumbering on the shore of the Eastern Indian Ocean, far away from anywhere.
The world's oldest outdoor picture garden can be found there though I was not keen on The Lion King (the film), even for watching it on a deckchair under the stars.
Broome has been a pearling centre since the end of the 19th century. It is actually the world's largest pearl producer and Dampier Terrace counts many jewellers. I resist purchasing one of their beautiful creations but have the good surprise to be given fresh water pearl earrings by Alison Bird, the owner and founder of the Blue camel Safari tour when I turn up for the iconic Cable beach sunset ride.
We won't walk its 22 kilometres length, though, or galop it, more's the pity.
The beach is named after the telegraph cable laid between Broome and Java in 1889 and, on this Wednesday afternoon, 4WD and utes congregate on its firm sands, their occupants waiting for the sunset, cool beer in hand.
Alison is tanned and wiry and has worked with camels on stations since the early 1980s. Robyn Davidson, who crossed the desert in 1977 with 4 camels and a dog, relates in her memoirs Tracks that she had to carry a rifle because of lone male camels gone feral. 'That's true', Alison agrees, 'I had to, as well! Lone males are very territorial. They can and will attack others. So, I had to shoot to protect my young camels'. Their meat is not so different from beef, she says. Just much leaner.
Third in a line of enchanted young and old kids, I'm walking on the sunset (watching all the people like the waves along the shore) on a beautiful lurching ride, gold and amber reflecting in the wet sand.
My camel is called Mosche, the younger of the lot. Here he is, wanting another carrot.
It's a very long way to the bottom too. There are 3200 kilometres of nothing much at all between Broome and Perth and I decide on a three night stop at Exmouth to break in two a 35 hour coach journey and ...swim with humpback whales.
Time for a little wikipedia-style moment: Western Australia covers the entire western third of the country for a population of 2.5 million people, with 92% of them living in the southwest, in an around the capital, Perth. That gives you an idea how empty the rest is. The whole continent is a tad smaller than the USA. Now, imagine a third of the USA, most of it desert and there you have it.
Situated at the tip of the north west cape, Exmouth is a diving and beach holiday haunt, with a small population of 2,500 people. Initially the location of a US military base during WW2, the town developed from 1967 to support a US Naval communication station. It now lives off tourism and almost triples at the height of the season.
Ningaloo Reef, that stretches on the western length of the peninsula, is one of the largest fringing reefs in the world. Whale sharks visit between March and June. During the winter months, it is part of the migratory route for dolphins, dugongs, humpback whales and manta rays.
There is a stiff breeze when I reach the top of the sand dune. Only a few minutes walk from the holiday village, the beach stretches wide and long. After only a few minutes, I spot whale spouts in the near distance. They are there!! I am too excited for words. Ah, but my tour, scheduled for the next day, is cancelled due to high winds. I find another company that still runs and buy seasickness tablets.
And a good idea it is. There is a 2 metre swell and it makes for a bumpy ride and dynamic snorkelling. We learn the rules of engaging with humpback whales : never closer than 15 to 30 metres, look at them when they approach and you need to swim away, not more than 7 people at a time in the water... One glides just underneath us. I am petrified with awe. A female swims past with a young one. Another one somersaults out of the water. We're told it's for getting rid of the barnacles that plague them. We spot dolphins, a dugong...
We motor towards the reef and its turquoise and jade waters for more snorkelling, a relief from the swell in the shelter of the corals, among a myriad of colourful fish.
Whales swim back towards the south in the spring. Their babies grow at the rate of 40 kg a day and will need plenty of body mass to withstand the waters of Antarctica.
They don't have the same song as those that migrate up and down the east coast...
Cold, exhilarated, wind beaten and sea drenched, I drag myself back to the comfort and warmth of my bunkbed. I share the dorm with two Chinese backpackers, Ping and Chu (I am not making this up). They are fun and friendly and immensely kind: I drown into sleep and won't hear them come back late at night...
The coach for Perth stops around 6pm at a road house in Carnavon. There will be no more hot food until midnight so it is now or never. Chips, fish, sausage rolls, the food served there, fried into oblivion, makes MacDonald look like a healthy option.
I am still in possession of the pillow bought in Kununurra, a vast improvement on long distance coach trips, and wake up just before dawn. A motorway, grey buildings emerging from the night, other cars zooming past and ... trees lining the roadside! Tall, proud, green trees, not stunted, dusty gums and bushes. I had forgotten about them.
I also had forgotten about cities.
Perth.
As far as cities go, this one is a good reintroduction. After a café that offers stacks of pancakes and fruit, I wander around the CBD, along its sunny, wide, clean avenues, free of any trafic on a Monday morning at 10am. Show me a European city where that happens. (Actually, show me Melbourne or Sydney at 10 am). Architecture opens the space, doesn't close it. Australian cities at their best.
September 28th, spring is just starting and there is a chill in the air. I am not used to that anymore nor am I equipped. Over the next few days and weeks, in Fremantle, Adelaide, Melbourne and Tasmania, my bag will grow heavier with the addition of a sweater and more socks. My sarong will bundle off as a thick scarf. My raincoat will resurface from the bottom of my rucksack. I will almost consider buying gloves. That's for those who imagine Australia as one sweltering land, in all seasons. It is not.
But I shall not be defeated and, two days later, on Rottnest island, I am swimming off a golden beach in crystal clear turquoise waters, after a few hours cycling in the warm sun, along a spectacularly dented coast. I am not surprised it has a long shipwreck history. It is a low-lying, limestone island, some 18 km off Fremantle and has a population of 100 souls, congregated in the village of Settlement. There are only few trees and the heat must be fierce in summer.
The Dutch who gave this island its name, mistook the quokkas for rats. They actually are mini-wallabys, tame, cute and plump, abundantly fed by tourists (who should no better) and bin overflows. I also spot a sea eagle and some fat black lizards who would be well inspired to cross the roads a little faster.
On the ferry trip back, I dip in and out of sleep, dragged back to consciousness by a young Scottish lady sitting across from me. Her voice reaches the furthest confines of the boat. She should be a teacher. When she declares to all and sundry 'My mother tells me I talk to loud', I can't help it. 'Your mother is right', I comment sleepily. It could've landed badly but Caroline (that's her name) and her two American friends, Christine and Naomi, burst out laughing. Humour will prevail! And kindness... They invite me to watch the sunset at Cottesloe beach and to a glass of bubbly.
I wander the streets of Fremantle. It is Perth's deep sea harbour, the Swan river not being deep enough for ocean-going ships. When Australia won the America's Cup in 1983, the money was used to renovate the harbour and iron-lace houses. Fremantle has an old European charm to it, in an unmistakable Australian way. All is quiet and peaceful. The sun shines in a cloudless sky, the trees wear the first vibrant green of spring. It is blessed.
Strolling aimlessly with my nose up in the air, I meet Annie. Her eyes are piercingly blue in her tanned face. She must have been a beauty in her youth. Now, she spends her time sitting at her doorstep, in a small front garden filled with flowers, its gate opened to the street, for better to catch any passerby who isn't rushing anywhere.
She bought this house 40 years ago, when it was nothing more than a hovel in a disreputable part of town. 'I had nothing else but the clothes on my back. But nobody wanted to buy this house, you see, because of the ghost.' I make the appropriate surprised noises. 'An Italian woman died of tuberculosis. Here, in this corridor. But she is a kind spirit. Go on! Enter! Visit my house!' There is an old lady smell, an antiquated phone set on a pedestal side table, an incredible quantity of soft toys and a suspicious tomcat who beats a hasty retreat in an overgrown back garden.
I will later hear that she is a local legend.
I like a town that has bookshops. One has a handsome old facade and, in another, a display stand offers books wrapped in brown paper and twine, with a few words summing up the topic. Let yourself be surprised. read something you wouldn't read otherwise. Have a 'Blind date with a book'! What a delightful idea...
When I was on the Soul Motion dance workshop in Alice Springs, I met Trishula and Jennipher who both live minutes from each other, at the edge of Fremantle. Jennipher has led an interesting life and offers me a Rebirth session. It was very fashionable in the 70s and 80s (I heard and read about it then) and it is a very insightful experience. She accompanies me through deep breathing and the knitting together of threads of awareness. Here we are below, sharing a meal in Fremantle.
Trishula offers me a room and a considerate and easy-going welcome. We spend evenings spinning the tales of our lives and sharing our thoughts. On her day off, she drives me to Araluen Botanical gardens, in the Darling Ranges. Tulips are just out, in subtly fragrant multicoloured beds; the sun is shining; the mountain stream, white with froth, is bouncing over the rocks; the air smells of hyacinths and freshly cut grass; wild bees are swarming in the grooves of banksia flowers.
There will always be this unreal feeling, a feeling that doesn't surface until you start thinking it is the last day of August and that it should be the end of summer and not the time for the sap to course up every stem and trunk. It is another of so many instances when Australia feels like another planet, a parallel universe...
Almost 2 decades ago, I read Bill Bryson's Down Under, which, by the way, contains the most hilarious account of a cricket game (it takes some real talent to achieve that) and the funniest first two pages of any travel book I have ever read. He also depicts the Karri forests south of Perth and I promised myself there and then that, one day, I would go.
But, after a dry winter, the weather has waited for me to take a turn.
So... what do you do when you are in the southwest corner of Australia and it seems that most of the rain that's going to fall this year is falling today? What do you do when you have admired enough foamy seascapes and when you've had it being buffeted by chilly winds? I am asking you.
You go and taste wine, that's what you do.
You land, a bit self-consciously, in the rarefied atmosphere of Aravina estate with your hair whipped up, with sandy chunky walking boots and a batik dress over muddy leggings, muddy boots and an Indian scarf but this being Australia, the courteous staff doesn’t bat an eyelid.
You taste lemony bubbly and an oaky white smooth as silk and a dusky dusty liquoricey red that has won medals.
While sheets of squally rain beat the window panes, you slowly savour scallops with bottarga and wood sorrel, snapper with celeriac puree and some local samphire swimming in olive oil and calamari ink... you decide you won't have dessert and you relent and try to be aware of how well all the flavours combine. You forget all the fry-ups of road houses and wayside inns while you eat the best food in the southern hemisphere yet... The wines of Aravina Estate are not distributed anywhere but only sold at the property. And it is well worth the trip.
Over the next few days, through cold winds, showers, bright sunny spells and every wet leaf shining like a diamond, I go down Lake Cave with its sheets of limestone, drinking-straw shaped stalactites and a gravity defying table hanging above the water.
Eventually, I reach Gloucester park Karri forest where I walk alone on an enchanted 10 km walk among some of the tallest hardwood in the world, Eucalyptus diversicolor, straight as ships' masts, like nature's own Sagrada Familia, an awe-inspiring loftiness and just the sound of my steps on wet leaves, bubbling cascades in the valleys and the song of birds, high above in the canopy. There are a few charred long fallen giants. What a blaze it must have been to defeat them. It doesn't bear thinking.
The local Aboriginal names all end in 'up' : Cowaramup, Gnarabup, Yallingup, Barrabup... in one of those villages/towns, someone (probably of German descent) offers their homemade Kugelhuf. Which one is it? I can't remember but what I do remember is chuckling to myself. Try and repeat quickly Gnarabup Kugelhuf. Many times…
The upside of visiting out of season is that I have no problem finding a bed in Youth Hostels. They are populated, at this time of year by young Europeans, North and South Americans who are on a working visa.
Theo works on vineyards. He is the one who recommended Aravina Estate. Theo loves to spin surfing tales. One day, he was ready to ride a wave when he saw 3 dolphins lined up in the hollow, all looking at him with utmost interest. What to do? He was taking this wave, collide into them! Too late even for a split second decision. The dolphins dived underneath his board... phew...
Another time, he was surfing away in a happy bubble when he suddenly noticed his friends gathered on the beach, gesturing wildly at him. Raising his eyes, he saw a helicopter whirring above him. Only then did he notice grey shapes milling beneath him. Those were not dolphins. He rode the next wave back to the beach where the life guards gave him a good dressing-down. I have it on good authority that the sea off Margaret River is the breeding ground for great white sharks and that there is one shark attack per week.
Thibaud is from Toulouse. He is a chef, a quiet, big-hearted giant of a man in his early thirties. Over soup and pasta at Margaret River YHA Backpackers, he tells me about his work in the mining town of Mount Isa, in the depths of Queensland. He was given carte blanche to reopen a rather dismal restaurant/hotel/tearoom with the dubious help of 2 Aboriginal cleaners, drunk half of the time. It had been closed for quite a while and the owner was going on a three months holiday. Thibaud spent the first couple of weeks scrubbing the kitchen thoroughly and putting together a menu. He baked and cooked everything himself, blanquette de poulet, boeuf bourguignon, 'except the croissants. Too fiddly'. He would ask the local Aborigine kids, whose parents were nowhere to be seen, to pick up the litter of empty bottles, beer cans and cigarette buts around the hotel. 'This is your land, a beautiful land, you have to take care of it'. He would then sit them in his kitchen and regale them with tartes au citrons and moelleux au chocolat.
Soon, the restaurant was fully booked every day. Exhausted, Thibaud found a French couple to continue in his footsteps and left after 4 months of very hard work.
He wants to find a land somewhere, anywhere and develop permaculture. Be self-sufficient. A lovely young man.
Ah well... It was a very long way and I didn't even rock'n roll...
But, in Fremantle, on the night of the super moon, I go to Theva's ecstatic dance evening in Fremantle. There are 70 of us. In a dance trance.
Goodbye Western Australia, land of many wonders...
Note: some pictures of the Kimberley were taken by my fellow travellers.
