Sydney to Melbourne via the Prince's Highway

---

Rach...

Ian drove us out of Sydney in our rented Toyota Corolla. It appears that the controls for the blinkers and the windscreen wipers are reversed on Japanese cars, so although the navigation was flawless, junctions involved much squeaking of dry rubber on glass, and accompanying swearing. Thank God it never rained. Sydney’s suburbs hardly fizzle out before Woollongong starts. Woollongong is a massive industrial city, and everyone who lives there must surely be peeved that Sydney always steals their thunder. After Woollongong things finally start to get more rustic, and by the time our hunger pangs kicked in, we found ourselves in a pleasant fishing village, which provided a suitable venue for our lunch.

Our target for this first day of driving was a seaside resort called Bateman’s Bay, which sounded from the guide books much more charming than the reality. The place sprawled, and on that Sunday afternoon, there was rather a bleak feel to everything. We had arrived on spec, and the tourist office had helped find us accommodation. The “Aquarius Apartments” felt down at heel, but they were cheap and there was an extremely small tennis court with free racquet hire. Ian agreed to give me a game before dinner. The lilliputian dimensions of the court did nothing to help contain our game, and balls flew beyond the wire fences and into neighbouring gardens with control varying inversely to force. In short, we were crap. Having retired embarrassed from the court, we sought dinner, and as dusk fell, and with it the simultaneous shutting up shop of all Bateman Bay’s chippies, cafes and bottleshops, we were taken by impending dread. A lone branch of Woolworths stood between us and starvation that evening. Late at night the only sound came from hotrod cars burning up the strip, so The Tasman Sea, a mere stone’s throw from us over the road - could not make its presence felt. I knew the Prince’s Highway should and would provide a better experience than this, so we were hot to trot the next morning, and thankfully things soon picked up most satisfactorily.

Our next stop was the seaside town of Merimbula…

Ian...

Rachael had identified a resort that was about 2km outside the town centre that appeared to offer some very picturesque views so we drove over to check it out. It was lovely. The accommodation was in octagonal beach huts - fairly basically equipped, but then we don’t need much more than a microwave to make porridge for breakfast anyway. When we stepped out of our front door onto our porch, we had a view over a 3 mile long stretch of golden sand. We had been having discussions about where to stay and for how many nights as we had planned to take 7 days to get from Sydney to Melbourne, so we couldn’t decide between up to 4 stopovers or just 3 stops. The view decided it for us so we booked 3 nights at these little cabins. When we awoke on the first day, the sun was streaming in through the front door so we eagerly put our boots on and, after preparing a packed lunch, went for a stroll up the beach as far as we could. The waves were crashing about 6 foot high, so the surf was pretty impressive, and every time the waves drew back, you could make out the sea bed and the fish in the clear water that was left behind out to about 10 meters from the beach. We spent what felt like an hour just gazing at the sight before we tore ourselves away to continue the walk - we must have looked like a right pair of lemons. The day passed serenely and we spent the evening with a bottle of wine and some cheese before passing out to the sound of the surf crashing into the beach. The next day the sun was even stronger than the day before so we decided to do a longer walk that I had spotted in one of the brochures we had. The difference this time was that we would be walking away from the beach on the outward part of the walk and then back along the beach on the return part. It was with quite some trepidation that we entered into our first real “bush” walk in Australia, however, after about half an hour, we still seemed to be alive, nothing had bitten us and we hadn’t trodden on anything we shouldn’t have done, so we started to relax. Rachael still made me walk first to break all the spider webs that crossed the track though and I could hear her chuntering behind me all the way with comments like ‘look at the size of that web!’ and ‘oh my god, what the hell is that!’. In case you were unaware, she doesn’t really like spiders. I am not madly keen on them either, but I always thought they were relatively harmless and then I made the mistake of reading a book about the spiders of Australia while on the trip to the Blue Mountains. Now, I’m checking in my shoes every morning, and lifting the toilet seat to check underneath and generally acting far more paranoid than normal. Bloody Greater Sydney Funnel Webs are apparently quite common between Sydney and Melbourne, and if you get bitten by one, you are probably going to die, and to make us even happier, we learnt that the males don’t take much provoking to have a go at you. If this blog ends suddenly, you’ll know what happened. Eventually we broke out of the bush next to the beach and played with the surf a little where it was crashing over some rocks close to the beach and, if you timed it right, you could get right underneath them without getting wet. Well, that was my theory anyway. It didn’t really work in practice as the water shot round the sides and soaked my feet while I was trying to avoid getting my head wet. After a short walk along the beach, we went back into the bush again, following our planned route, and came across some wild kangaroos. After the obligatory photos and video captures, we continued on to our packed lunch stop for the day where we sat and watched some surfer dudes doing their thing and saw dolphins parade past too. What more could you ask of a day?

Back to Rach...

I was quite sad to leave Merimbula. We’d had two smashing walks, we’d shown restraint in terms of budget, diet and booze (well, at least compared to Sydney) and after the disappointment of Bateman’s Bay, I was worried that our next stop over on the Prince’s Highway might be a dump again. A careful study of The Lonely Planet and The Eyewitness Guide had helped us select a little fishing village called Metung, just over the New South Wales border and into Victoria, as our third and final destination. Again we bowled into town without a reservation, but shortly we’d negotiated (with a substantial reduction) three nights in an apartment with a pool, tennis court, washing machine, and (the holy grail!) a dish washer. As soon as I’d unpacked, I tootled off for a swim in the pool. I didn’t really want to, but you have to get your money’s worth, don’t you.

The following day was fine and sunny, but not scorching. Ian was in the mood for a morning mooch about the village, and for the first time, we could appreciate how pretty everything was. Metung is near a larger resort called Lake’s Entrance. As the name suggests, an inlet from the sea leads to quite a large lakes system, and the waters run parallel with the coast for many miles. Metung is particularly idyllic. The inlets curl around it chaotically, and countless islands dot the waters.

Since our maiden voyage in New Zealand, we are no strangers to the Sea Kayak, and at Ian’s suggestion we decided put our old sea legs to the test once again. Our apartments had Kayaks for rent, and I didn’t need to be asked twice to put a packed lunch together, and fill the rucksack with the necessary apparel, namely gloves, because the oars give you blisters, sun tan lotion, because there is no shade on the high seas, and a pair of dry knickers for the walk home. Although the man at the Kayak Hire booth was friendly, I felt he scoffed too much at Ian’s perfectly reasonable enquiry about crocodiles and sharks in the area. His assurances were firm, but I didn’t trust his smirk. And besides, the waiver form he made us sign seemed particularly long. I was no happier when he helped us aboard the Kayak from the jetty. The crystal clear waters were thronging with thousands and thousands of jelly fish. It was jelly fish soup, it really was. Mr Kayak insisted that they were all harmless, but then Aussies reckon that Red Backs are relatively benign if you don’t piss ‘em off. I was quite nervous as we pushed away from the harbour, but after steady and uneventful progress though the soup I gradually gained confidence.

Soon we had left Metung far behind, and were peacefully exploring shady inlets, lonely moored yachts, and private jetties with their lazy seagulls. We shared the channels with hundreds of pairs of black swans, and also with enormous white pelicans, sometimes landing on the water like giant Hercules planes, but mostly just bobbing around on the surface, gulping down fish into their big flabby throats. They were lovely, and hardly took any notice of us in our tandem kayak, paddling erratically like a graceless, two headed yellow sea monster.

We stopped for lunch in a tiny bay where a few boats were moored. Obligingly a little village green, a picnic table and public conveniences had been provided for us, so we scoffed our sandwiches in comfort. We took a circuitous route back home, and dallied by islands with white sand beaches, and amongst the pelicans roosting on the sun-bleached branches jutting out from the shallows. It was a truly smashing day.

The excitement of our adventure must have been too much for Ian, because he slept badly that night, and declared he wanted a quiet, do-nothing day on our third and last day in Metung. Generously he suggested a leisurely drive out to the local riding school, via a lunch stop on the way. The plan was for me to go on a trek whilst Ian would rest quietly in the car. He was still outlining the plan as I started dialling the Trek Centre to reserve my ride! We had a light lunch of pie and cake in the town of Bairnsdale, then we headed to the treking centre where a fine array of horses and ponies awaited me. Ian resisted the impulse to get out the car and greet the equine entourage, but I didn’t. The riding teacher, Ann, eventually introduced me to my steed, Little Joe, a lovely mahogany coloured stallion, about fourteen hands, with a friendly demeanour. I was also informed that Little Joe was a celebrity, having appeared on Aussie TV in the reality show “Out Back House” and having also starred in the remake of the film “Bonanza”, in which he portrayed, well, a horse. To his credit, fame had not left Little Joe remotely precious or affected.

My experience of horse treking until now has been rather tame. You mount, follow the horse in front’s arse for an hour or two at walking pace, your bum gets sore then you get off. Well, here in Oz, things seem to be different. Our small group, consisting of Ann, myself and three other riders with varying experience, set off from the farmstead, through a small wood, and were soon high on the green rolling hills, with the blue haze of afternoon over the distant gum trees. “Right”, says Ann suddenly, “Who wants to canter?” My hand shot up well in advance of the good sense that should have attended it. The last time I had cantered was at Bournvale Riding Stables when I was a very young thing, but this was a chance not to be missed. I confided to Ann that it might be prudent if I could try a trot first, as common sense was now slowly making gains on my enthusiasm. Anyway, an attempt at rising trot went well, so I positioned myself with the others ready for the canter. At Bournvale, the horses were on a permanent go slow. (Well, it was the seventies.) As I recall, canter could only be achieved by a minute of humiliating and exhausting kicking, at the end of which the pony may, only may, deign to accelerate briefly out of a lethargic trot before resuming its usual insolent pace nose to tale with the pony in front. Not so the Aussie horses. Like the Aussie humans, they all seem to be intensely sporty and competitive. It clearly wasn’t my horsewomanship which spurred Little Joe to rocket across the fields, so I must have been rivalry amongst the horses. Anyway, I stayed on, kept my stirrups, and Ann said at the end that I had “looked good”. Naturally, I was euphoric. There were to be many more trots, canters and even the jumping of a fallen tree trunk on the trek too! We saw native bush birds, wombats, and thankfully no spiders on the way. Back at the stables, I helped put Little Joe’s tack away and watched him and the other horses get a lovely cool wash down before Ian, who had waited patiently, drove me home, complaining about the “stink of horses” on me all the way back to Metung. It was without doubt the best horse trek I’ve ever been on.

The next morning we loaded all the stuff into the car and set off again down the coast road towards Melbourne...

---

Comments

[Roddy]

Thanks for sharing
You look like if you are having a really good time... thanks for sharing!!! Love you a lot Rocío, André, Habtam, Asha and little Ian

[Ian n Rach]

Hi Roddy!
We're having a great time out here - Europe next!