Hillston

Towards Hillston

It is time to head home – we brace ourselves to deal with the long trip across the barrier Highway from Broken Hill, through Wilcannia to Cobar – we know it by reputation – worse than the Hay Plain they say! – They are wrong – at least they are wrong in this season – the drive a delight! – wildflowers everywhere – yellow, white, blue – green road verges – smoky grey eucalyptus bushes come trees on either side of the road turn the roadway into an amazing avenue – bushy eucalyptus trees that bear a strong resemblance to the olive trees of the Mediterranean spread themselves over a carpet of wild flowers – we are both reminded of drives with the Royals and Salibas through Tuscany - We suspect that it will not be like this the next time we traverse this route.

Stop in Cobar – pleasant and busy – it is enjoying the season – on to the Kidman Way – a road of surprisingly high quality punctuated by areas of extensive roadworks and occasional pavement damage.

Immediately we turn south from Cobar Bernie decides that the light has changed – it has lost its clarity she says – the further south we come the more water there is in the landscape – the extent of the wildflowers dissipates and the trees just look green rather than shimmering.

We pass Mt Hope Station and Mt Hope – a sign says “real Espresso Coffee” – the premises looks old and tired.

We approach the Lachlan River – heavily in flood – we are stopped and escorted across the swollen flood plain – into Hillston – we don’t even consider using the van – we are motel travellers now – into the delightful Hillston Motel on High – lovely people – lovely new place – off to the Ex-Services Club – seemingly like all country clubs a Chinese restaurant.

Hillston not like the Hillston of my imagination – perhaps it is the weather – the town looks, neat tidy and prosperous!

Menindee

Menindee

We are pleased to be well and truly out of sight of that bloody van! – we take to the road to Menindee – the Lakes are filling for the first time in a number of years – a tour on the River Lady – a glorified oversized tinnie – more than fit for purpose.

Past the majestic red river gums now deceased from years of unnatural inundation – past a tree that 300 years ago donated part of its bark to the creation of a canoe to service the river crossing and travel of the aboriginal peoples who shared the river with it.

Past a lot of incidental tourists – Sea Gulls! – Pelicans! – past the nests of Fairy Martins – past the nest of Whistling Kites

Along the channel of the original Darling River – cross across the flooded flood plain and back into the channel – enjoyable! – recommend.

To Menindee – a tired, tired, tired town – rows and rows of grape vines retired from production and left to wither and die – some latter day optimist, like some of their pioneer forefathers, clearly saw their dreams come to nought.

Visit the tourist information centre – admire the quilts that are on sale – clearly some local is trying to supplement the income from their agricultural enterprise – eventually the manager arrives – he grabs standard maps of the town – out comes the highlighter pen – with an expertise and a bored demeanour borne of providing tourists with the same information year after year, he draws a standard route on the map and dispatches us on our way.

Burke and Wills camp site - the burial site of their Afghan camel driver – the Maiden Hotel – Ah Chung’s Bakery – the rail head used to ship load after load of water to Broken Hill before the pipeline was completed – where have all the natives gone?

Into the Kinchega National Park – follow the River Road – a tight and twisty track that is clearly impassable when it rains – the track follows hard on the Darling River for 15 kilometres – initially feels messy and unkempt but then we come to recognise that it is spectacular in a way that only the muddy water, the high banks of the Darling and the its scraggly red gum forests can be – we find ourselves enthralled and then, seemingly in a virtual instant, sad to see the road turn away from the forest and into the adjacent rangeland.

Towards the Kinchega Homestead and Woolshed – how could people live here? – What is it that stimulated the pioneers’ to believe that they could sustain a life in this difficult and remote environment?

Back to look at Lake Menindee adjacent to diversion channel – the weir has only been open for a fortnight but already the lake looks like Sydney Harbour – one assumes that the upstream rains leading to the opening of the diversion channel will for a short while placate the angst of the locals towards the Murray-Darling Management Authority.

Surely by now power has been restored to the caravan park – head back towards Broken Hill – pause to take a photo of animal handling yards silhouetted against the sky line.

We arrive back at the caravan park – it is practically deserted – everyone without a generator has left leaving behind them piles of destroyed awnings – power will not be on for another day! – Bernie heads off to find a motel with power – the van is packed up with little consideration – gone is the kindness and tenderness that had previously been lavished on this miscreant van – the packing up process gives precedence to speed rather than to any other consideration.

Bernie returns successful – in a flash we are gone!

We say to one another – that is it! – we are over this! – we will change our travelling address to:

Incidental travellers

C/0 Any Motel,

Anywhere

We will also forward our email

From:

              No-connectivity@NBN.com.au

To         

              Incidental-Travellers@anymotel.com.au

We test the motel as an alternative to caravanning – no contest!

The Very Broken Hill

Broken Hill

Why don’t I trust that bloody camper van – we arise to prepare for our solo excursion to Broken Hill and places north – she stands there like a broken and relaxed pony – I should be relaxed but I am not – I have an inherent mistrust of her – is she just trying to lull me into a false sense of security – “no – no” – I tell myself – “she is entirely broken and happy to play the role of faithful servant” – “don’t trust her” comes a voice from deep within – “time will tell” says I.

Off towards Wentworth and onwards towards Broken Hill - Trees retired form their production responsibilities slowly wither away – Into Wentworth – she looks old and tired – she has seen better days

Out of irrigation district into the rangeland – scrubby trees and salt bush predominate - past Pomona the environment is more and more dominated by salt bush – the roadsides are green but the vibrant greens of the lands to the south have gone – the few crops have already been stripped – while the country looks sad and ragged in this good season, we wonder what it might look like in a bad year – the road verges are still green with yellow daisies and Paterson’s curse providing ribbons of colour – further on the daisies and curse are join by blue stattice – a narrow finger of irrigated land with its green grasses and trees contrast against the yellow of the stripped crops and dowdy greens and gays of the rangeland.

Swerve to avoid a stumpy tailed lizard making it way across the road – as we proceed signs of human occupation reduce and the rangeland fauna show signs of their life and death battle for survival. It seems like even the eagles and kites have forsaken the land only to return when we pass through occasional cropping areas.

We arrive at the roadhouse at Columba – 120k to Broken Hill – an uninspiring establishment – we decide to have lunch – place an order - nice enough lady – where are the toilets? – she produces a key – “it is the staff toilet” she says – clearly the key only appears when the keys of the cash register are pressed – if these are staff toilets then this tiny roadhouse must have an enormous staff – we sit and await the arrival of our order – a four wheel drive pulls up – two 14 or 15 tear old girls pile out – clearly they are intent on the reaching the nearest public convenience in the shortest possible time – “where are the toilets” they say – “there are no public toilets here!” – Says the lady – the girls seem to cross the legs tightly and rush back to their vehicle! – There must be a better way of handling this!

The lady turns her attention back to us – we have handed over cash and are therefore welcome – “see that out there” she says – “that is normally just red sand!” – We have not had this much rain for 49 years she says – I think to myself – “change your mind about what you are seeing son! – this is as good as it gets!”

The recently broken and now apparently friendly filly that is our campervan seems to sit patiently outside tethered securely to the tow vehicle – “if you are really to emulate your experienced caravanning friends Mike, you should do a check of your equipment” says I – I check the linkage – fine! – Check the camper van electrics – fine! – Check the campervan wheels - oh hell! – Hot – not impossibly hot but hot nevertheless! – “what was that?” – I thought I heard someone let out a little giggle but none one is around save me, the van and tow vehicle – think – decide to drive at the moderate speed and check the wheel temperature every 10k’s or so – drive 10 – check – still hot but no hotter – another 10 k’s still hot but no hotter – battle on to Broken Hill – search out a caravan repairer – they check the wheel bearings – look fine! – remove the brake drum – out drops two unattached brake shoes – put the brake drum back on – on our way without brakes – light little camper van – not a real problem – I suspect I know who it was that was having the little giggle back at Columba – that bloody van is not yet broken in!

Settle into the caravan park – a grassed camping area Broken Hill style! - no grass just bark chips – set up the van – she is back to her placid self – Bernie reflects on the tree that caught her interest at a parking bay on the Silver City Highway about 50ks from Broken Hill – a significant tree adorned with bras of all shapes, sizes, colours and manufacturers all of which have been donated to this gorilla decoration project by passing tourists – were they donated from suitcase or were wayward breasts left unsupported for the remainder of the tourist’s travels to Broken Hill? – in any event Bernie declined to participate in the activity but did see the display as an indication that her visit to Broken Hill may not be as uplifting and she hoped!

We skip out to Silverton and onto the Murri Murri lookout – decide that in fact we could see the curvature of the earth on the horizon – back into Silverton – precisely what it has been reported to be and what I suspect it wants you to believe about itself! -  back into Broken Hill – it has been a big day – resolve to leave the real sightseeing until tomorrow – eat at the Musician’s Club – what? – no music! – music only on Friday and Saturday nights – in fact just a pokies based club like hundreds of its counterparts throughout rural NSW.

The night in the van passes without incident – we plan the day – galleries in the morning – Bell’s café for lunch – drive the heritage trail and visit the Palace Hotel in the afternoon! –

The Living Desert Sculpture Park - enjoy very much - take care on the road in to avoid subjecting bearded dragons to an untimely demise.

 Pro Hart – impressive but different now that Pro has passed – Jack Absalom’s – ring the bell – Jack himself answers the door – you are my guests says he – he leaves us to look at his paintings and his opal collection – the Broken Hill Regional Gallery – impressive – surprising quality – The Phantom – a travelling exhibition including a contribution by Charles Blackman.

Bell’s Café – retro café in the manner of the Niagara Café at Gundagai – a really, really good milkshake.

Drive the Heritage Trail - Bernie loves the style of the old cottages -

Get about half way through thee Heritage Drive before a combination of sweltering temperatures and lack of interest get the better of us – to the Silverton Pub – it will probably have air-conditioning – it does – a dive that is still living off Mad Max and a Town Called Alice – photos cover the wall! –

We order our beers – the barmaid seems nervous – there is a bang on the floor behind the bar – it is the snake catcher says the barmaid – a western brown snake had come in for a drink – being refused entry at the main door he decided to make his way in through a hole in the barrel chute – he cannot be found – the barmaid presses tissues into any crack in the floor she can see.

The snake catcher continues his work, the barmaid gets on about her work and the drinkers continue to drink.

The publican holds court in the bar – he talks about snakes – cannot miss the opportunity to impress the tourists – the Tourists actively compete to converse with the publican – in listening to these conversations it occurs to me that some tourists may see the contents of such a conversation as having the potential to give them the upper hand when they discuss with their friends their mutual recollections of when they all “DID” Broken Hill and Silverton.

Back into Broken Hill – surely the Palace Hotel will have air conditioning too! – It doesn’t – still we are tourists and tourists all have to have a drink with Priscilla.

Dine in the Silver City Chinese Restaurant – not too bad – very few in-house diners but huge takeaway and delivery business – the phone never stopped ringing and the door never stopped opening and closing.

It has been a hot and humid day – it is still early – just 6:15pm – retire to the van – notice the wind starting to pick up and sky start to darken – think nothing of it – reach the safety of the van.

A few spots of rain appears – the wind rises – a little more rain – a little more wind – a lot more wind – more rain – even more wind – the van threatens to tip over – the awnings ropes lets go - the awning swings in the breeze threatening to crash into the van next door – I rush to the door in an attempt to contain the wayward awning – a manage to restrain it – I look across at other vans – their awnings are successively being ripped from their vans – I hold on to my awning for dear life – wack – wack – what in the hell was that? – The hail has arrived – the size of maltesers – more hail – more hail – more hail – smash! – the car window behind shatters – more hail – more wind – the van shakes – finally the bed cover stay lets go – wet, wet canvas comes to rest on the bed – oh hell – oh hell!

After a seeming eternity the hail stops, the rain stops, the wind stops – the storm has passed – we all emerged from our vans – awnings, awnings everywhere, tree branches everywhere including on a brand new van – power is out – lines are down – the whole of Broken Hill is powerless! – “it never hails in Broken Hill” says one of the locals – “yes I said but then again this is the first time my miscreant little camper van has been here!”

We struggle around the van attempting to secure the villain before the next burst of environmental mis-content. A voice emerges from the only van in the park that does not experience any obvious damage - the women says to Bernie - "just pick up that hail stone for me dearie - I want to show my daughter on face-time" - with a stare that is normally reserved exclusively for a husband who has incurred her wrath Bernie responds with a firm "NO" - Bernie goes about her repairs frequently uttering "I cannot believe that women!"

How is the car? – hail damage not as obvious as I would have expected! – unfortunately that was only because of the fading light – a morning inspection would reveal that the car would be much faster and more efficient on the highway courtesy of the golf ball like indentations on the bonnet surface.

People wander the caravan park – stunned – shocked – a representative of the caravan park arrives – I am the Operations Manager he says - everything will be ok – we are insured he says – we will have a 500KVA generator here in no time – I know what I am doing – I was a Deputy Chief Inspector in the New Zealand Police – I report to Bernie that all will be well – the Operations Manager had told me he would have power on in no-time – Operations Manager, my hat! Says Bernie – “he is the tour bus driver!” – “in any event” she says – “what is Deputy Chief Inspector from New Zealand doing running a caravan park in Broken Hill!”.

We retrieve our soaked bedding – at least it is only one bed – we will enjoy a cuddle tonight! – hang the bedding on the park’s clothes line to dry and retire to bed hoping for the power to return to activate my sleep apnoea machine – it never happens!

We talk about caravanning – we agree – this is the last straw – the wilful, scheming, mischievous camper van is entirely responsible for our malaise and for the malaise of those wanderers who by some cruel quirk of fate happen to share our camp grounds at Cessnock, Port Macquarie, Brooms Head and Broken Hill – she is clearly a nasty, nasty piece of work!

A restless night ends in the dawning of a fine day – we head for the showers – they will be gas so a hot shower is a certainty – wrong! - instant gas hot water requires electrical ignition – cold – cold – cold – mood not improved but we both resolve to make the best of the day – the power will be back on sometime today so let’s head off to Menindee and leave the van to dry out in the warm sun.