Dirtier than ever

Today's map.



Tim S had to rush off to work in the morning, so there was no sleep-in for either of us. A tribe of apes (or, possibly, very drunk teenage males) ruined the night for just about everyone in the apartments, until the police were called. One poor resident was so upset with their incredibly antisocial noise that she screamed at them for a full ten minutes from her bedroom window.


Breakfast was pide leftovers. As I scoffed, I said a silent prayer for anyone who might stray within range of my garlic-enhanced breath during the day. Tim skipped breakfast - his stomach was still giving him grief - and cleaned up the place before dashing off to the office in a taxi. I stood in the grey morning light and considered my options.


The drunks from the night before reminded me that it was a long weekend. With a barely-rational feeling of dread for what that might mean in terms of traffic, I pushed north, staying off the highway by following the coastal tourist drive towards Forster-Tuncurry. I don't remember too much of that ride, apart from feeling that QLD was finally getting closer. I couldn't wait to see my family and sit on the deck, looking over the river and talking.


The brain wasn't firing on all cylinders, so I decided to get some exercise at Cape Hawke. There was a crazily steep walking track up the little bluff, cutting through dense subtropical forest that reminded me strongly of Noosa Hill in QLD. Pairs of butterflies were chasing each other through the undergrowth, doing crazy kamikaze mating dances. At the top, there was an observation tower with the most incredible, panoramic view of the coast. It was worth the climb just to listen to an American man having a noisy heart attack on the way up.

Cape Hawke viewing platform.

Looking south.

Looking north to Forster-Tuncurry.

Looking unkempt.

Forster and Tuncurry themselves did nothing to float my boat and/or rustle my jimmies, so I rode on. Think Gold Coast if you want the general idea: faded, plastic and past its prime, despite the beautiful location.

Beach at Forster.

Next stop was Wingham, where history was abundant but lunch choices were few. Luckily, there was one decent place amongst the boarded-over shopfronts and dusty hardware stores. I treated myself to a 'gourmet hotdog' and a flat white, while I worked on the blog. A gorgeous girl sat nearby with her family, talking about her band and their upcoming recording contract. I didn't catch their name, sadly, so my fantasy of being their first motorcyle-riding groupie evaporated. Ah well, it never would have worked out - she was half a foot taller than me (and Lauren will probably cut half a foot off my gentleman's vegetables after she reads this).

Fancy hotdog at Wingham.

After such a cracking lunch, I felt the Rev and I could make it to Wauchope without any dramas. The road between them was about 150km of mostly deserted farmland, which looked easily achievable. There was about 35km of dirt road, said the sign, but I wasn't too phased after the Rev had handled the last bit of gravel so well.

When the dirt arrived, it was quite a bit trickier than I'd hoped. The nice, graded surface quickly gave way to a liberal scattering of deep potholes, separated by stretches of ball-bearing gravel wherever the road lay in full sun. I spent an awful lot of time in first and second gear, but at least that gave me the chance to drink in the forest sections at a slower pace. I love how riding puts you in touch with the elements and this was a great piece of country for that. I felt the sting of the sun give way to cool, fresh air whenever we ducked under the canopy of trees. Road kill and cow crap added to the sensorama at regular intervals.

Rev waits patiently for me to pee.

Another break after a very rough section.

Feed silo near Comboyne.

It was getting late by the time the bitumen returned and, once again, I was starting to feel tense and tired from biting off more kilometres than I could chew. The sun was almost gone by the time I reached Wauchope (pronounced 'war hope', not 'walk up' like the one in NT). A frantic drive around town revealed no caravan parks or camping spots, so I reluctantly stopped at the quietest-looking motel I could find.

I was dishevelled and supremely grumpy when Eric, the manager of the Timber Town Motel, greeted me. When I baulked at the price (which was brilliant value, but still a lot more than camping) he calmly ran me through the other options in town: the pub, which was noisy and nearly as expensive and a competing motel, which was run down and expensive. Desperately tired and lured by the call of a proper bed, I signed myself in for the night.

On finding my room, I had no regrets at all. The room was huge, the bed was comfy and there were little bottles of shampoo waiting for me in the bathroom.

Luxury!

The bed passed the flop test.

After the most magical shower ever invented, which felt like being bathed in warm milk by forest nymphs (well, ok, maybe not THAT good), I walked up to the tavern for a meal and a beer. You know how, in the movies, a stranger walks into a pub and the band stops playing and everyone freezes mid-swallow to stare at them? That happened to me. It sucks.

After straightening my shoulders and ordering a pint and some squid 'n' chips, normal chatter resumed and I went and swigged my lager in the beer garden. The food was top notch - I had really spoiled myself today!

Back at room 3 and much more relaxed, I ignored the pay TV and flaked out for the most delicious, delirious slumber.