To the lodge!

Today's map.

Overnight, a sea fog thick enough to confound popeye himself rolled over the caravan park. The fog met the gum tree we camped under and, through the miracle of condensation, it rained on our tents all night.

Pok!

Pok-pok-pitta pok!

Effin pok!

Neither Trav nor i got the most restful sleep. It was amazing how loud a few drops of water can seem when the fog has hushed everything else around you.

In the morning, I went for a walk down to the water and took some photos while Trav tried to catch some more rest.

Still, the Victorian high country was calling and we had a date with a mountain called Hotham. It's the place all the cool Victorians go when they want to sip decaf lattes at a higher altitude than the Little Collins St pavement.

After fuelling up we hit the B500 - The Alpine Way. Now this is a cool road. It's long, twisty and smoothly surfaced for most of the interesting bits. Trav and I had a ball, stopping frequently for rest and talk about each other's riding technique. My weak area was right hand bends because I feared running off the edge of the road. To compensate, I was riding too close to the centre line at times, which is not a good idea when a caravan is coming the opposite way. It's something I'm still working on as I experiment with different body positions in the corners.

We stopped for a pie and coffee at the Swifts Creek bakery. It was about the size of a cupboard, but the bloke behind the counter was a champ and the food was tops. We got chatting with a local lady while we ate. She was the first of many people who have given their opinion on this trip. So far I've been told variously: 3 months is not enough; 3 months is too much; motorcycles are the devil; I wish I did that when I was younger; and you might as well check into a mental institution right now because you'll go nuts travelling alone. We moved on.

Trav, through his connections in the engineering community, had scored us cheap accommodation at the ASEA (an old engineering institute) ski lodge at Hotham. After the obligatory hot lap of Hotham and quick photo stop, we moved ourselves loudly into the lodge. You can't help but go a bit stupid when you have a million beds to choose from and a grand old lounge room filled with leather chairs and an old upright piano. It was brilliant!

We waltzed down to 'The General' - the corner shop plus pub - to stock up on dinner. While we shopped, we caught the young bloke manning the place staring blankly straight down the barrel of his laser barcode scanner. It must get really boring up there in the off season...

I splashed out on some heavy (8.5%!!) local beers and a bottle of wine, while Trav organised the materials for what would become the 2010 Festival of Carbohydrates. Digging deep in the chest freezer, he fished out some ready-made canneloni and some medium sized brown things. Dusting the frost off them, I leaned in to read the label.

"Stuffed pigeon!" I exclaimed, loudly enough for the counter guy to hear.

"Nah, it's pide, dude. Bread." Trav clarified after a closer look.

I must admit I was slightly disappointed as my fantasy of wining and dining on stuffed pigeon at the lodge faded. To make up for it, Trav referred to the bread as 'pigeon' for the rest of the night.

Writing the blog, playing jelly car and drinking white wine followed, in what was quickly becoming an evening ritual. Travelling alone now, I really miss those nights.

Bottle finished, we slumped on the couches for a while, then collapsed into the beautiful beds. (It was separate rooms, Jarrod, just to be clear. No more brokeback bikies comments!)