The Rev's first taste of dirt

Today's map.

Back to the trip diary for a moment, because I'm still woefully behind.

Thick fog rolled in overnight, which was a double-edged sword. On one hand, fog tends to keep you nice and warm in the tent, but the downside is waking up in a cocoon that is one part canvas and nine parts water. The slightest touch on the inside of the tent rewards you with a refreshing trickle down your arm and waiting for the sun to dry everything out sends me insane with impatience.

Fog. Tim Prideaux dislikes this.

On my way back from the shower, I got talking with an old bloke who was a semi-permanent resident in one of the caravans near my site. I mentioned the fog and he said it'd been getting worse all week.

"The fogs seem to be getting Bega and Bega." he joked, looking at me to see if I'd registered his wisecrack.

I laughed at his cheesy comment and tried to stay out of his whey after that, in case he drove me crackers.

We started the day by heading southeast to the little surfie village of Tathra, before following the coast through national parks towards Bermagui. It was a pretty area, with lots of little beaches and bluffs, populated by a few keen fishermen and some surfers.

Cuttagee Beach, near Bermagui.

Not long after re-joining the Pacific Highway and hating it, I saw the sign for a tourist drive inland, so I swung the Rev in the direction of the brown signposts. Quite suddenly, I was on single-track dirt roads, coaxing the top-heavy bike through tight corners made of slippery gravel. It was good fun to try something very different to bitumen riding, but the pace had to be kept very slow. Any time I ventured over about 50km/h, a pothole or corrugated section would do its best to throw me into the bush, where I would be eaten alive by carnivorous wallabies.

Getting dirty in the bush.

After some more highway drudgery, dodging idiots in Commodores and aggressive tarts with hibiscus stickers on their Barinas, I pulled up in Batemans Bay for food. The inlet on which the town is built is beautiful, but the town itself had a very boganic feel to it. Everyone in the supermarket seemed to be called Sharon. None of the Sharons had ever located the contraceptives in aisle 9, judging by the pram warfare unfolding over the frozen chips cabinet.

Nice waterway. Shame about the locals.

I bought a chocolate milk to go with my grapes and apple. Feeling rebellious, I deliberately ignored the opening instructions. Sitting out by the water, I swigged my milk, enjoying the view and the knowledge that I was a total badass.

Nobody tells me which side to open!

Afternoon approached and I felt the need to make progress, so I punched on up the road, through Ulladulla and on towards Nowra. On a bit of a whim, I turned right just before Nowra and headed for Jervis Bay, which my eight-year-old set of maps told me was a beautiful place to camp. It was surprisingly difficult to find somewhere to pitch the tent, because most of the campsites are on federally-controlled land. Because it was after 3:59pm, the booking office, staffed by our federal government friends, was deadlocked and deserted. I expressed my disgust by taking a wee in their garden (the toilets were also locked) and went hunting elsewhere.

Some time later, I found a caravan park in Huskisson, which was brutally expensive, but right on the beach. I went for a jog at dusk, shared my lentil dinner with a couple of bold possums and met a wonderful young family who were on holiday from Canberra. After a couple of days with nobody but the dead bugs on my helmet to talk to, it was great to sit and chat with them until bedtime.

Would you like some awkward with your sunset?

The waves hissed gently up the beach and I settled down in my yellow cocoon - still wet from the morning fog - to sleep.