Once I'd managed to sleep a night without being woken by dingoes, snakes, german teenage backpackers and all the other rustly little so and so's that keep your adrenalin levels high enough to cook on it was time for a leisurely yomp of another 600 or so kilometres to Exmouth (pronounced Ex-mowth, not Exmuth as we're reliably informed). Our last night was spent in Tom Price, place of very little except a teenage kangaroo on speed and the odd backpacker infringement. As one does, one turns up at ones campsite, picks ones spot (the best obviously, because lady Debbie deserves nothing better), and then the german teenage oiks from the last place that kept us awake pitched up and flagrantly pitched down virtually inside ones own edifice. Her ladyship was noticably annoyed, so I sent
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