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Rach ... Not since our ‘old life’ back in Germany have we spent more than ten nights in the same place - until our stay here in Margaret River. For me, this has been one of the most relaxing portions of our journey. It has also caused me to recognise a few home truths about myself: For example, in these last two weeks I’ve enjoyed a greater degree of freedom than I’ve probably ever had - and what did I do with it? I formed a happy little routine, which has scarcely varied at all: I wake up, I go to the local gym, Ian and I have breakfast on the veranda and observe the parrots, I work on my computer project, then we head out to a winery for lunch, we come home at dusk, and end the day with dinner and TV entertainment from the laptop. All this makes me thoroughly happy. So it seems I’m not naturally spontaneous at all - but then I always suspected that. Furthermore, Ian - with his current dizziness problem - is content to let me set the rhythm of the day. Bonus for me.
Our chalet here in the
Bacchus at the stomp
Slighty sinister isn't he?woods has been terrific. We have been simultaneously close to nature and the colourful birdlife, and easily within reach of town and the local attractions. We would never normally have paid extra for a spa bath, but because it came free with the package, we decided we ought to use it. This constituted yesterday evening’s small divergence from the routine. The Aussies seem to prize their spas, although why having a hot bath in public in your back yard should be such a phenomenon is not really clear to me. The novelty factor didn’t last as long the bubble bath, to be honest.
Whilst our accommodation here is more luxurious that we’ve been accustomed to, the draw back is that it has not brought us into contact with many locals or fellow travellers. The most exposure we’ve had to South-Western Aussies en-masse was last Sunday afternoon’s fete at a large local winery called Voyager. The Voyager Estate is massive and has very impressive grounds. It was a super setting for the fete, which was entitled “The Vintage Stomp”. I think the name refers to the treading of grapes, and indeed the highlight of the day’s program was a carnival
procession headed by an enormous and slightly sinister papier-mâché model of Bacchus. The floats which followed contained African drummers, kids dressed as animals, the local polo team on their ponies, and some agricultural vehicles. It was hard to discern an actual theme in it all, but the crowds received every float with enthusiasm.
I can report that, despite the geographic isolation, the evolution of the village fete on this continent has barely differed from at home: There were regular bulletins over the tannoy about children gone A.W.O.L., there was the less-than-reassuring presence of the St Johns volunteers, all merrily parked up on deckchairs and privately anticipating a good bloodbath, no doubt, and there were legions of face-painted kiddies marauding about like miniature delegates at a Kiss convention. The only thing to remind Ian and me that we were in Oz was an aboriginal display in which a few blokes in loin cloths ‘cleansed the meeting ground’ by performing a smoking ceremony. (I should make clear that they were burning leaves, not having a quick fag.) Meanwhile another bloke sounded the didgeridoo continuously, which was quite impressive, as he must have had a lot of puff. However, we couldn’t help
but doubt these fellers’ claim of aboriginal descent, as at least one of them had distinctly blacked-up - or more accurately - oranged-up for the occasion. His intent might have been an aboriginal hue, but he had wound up looking just like I do after a careless application of Clarins Express-Bronzage cream.
The various stalls and amusements were manned by all sorts of organisations. Among the scouts, the girl guides and the usual suspects we spotted one stall benefiting the Margaret River Men’s Support Group. Their banner revealed that they offered counselling, mentoring and a “cool-down safe house” for the region’s blokes in emotional strife. And so, in one fell swoop, the stereotype of the rugged, straight talking bushman was dead! Could it be true? Unless a “cool-down safe house” is, in fact, just the local boozer, then could “Bruce” now be “New-Bruce”, a sensitive, evolved group-hugger? It seemed implausible to me, but I was still reeling from my experience at the dairy stall, where the farmer there had warmly invited me to (and I quote genuinely) “try my cheese love; it’s a favourite with the Sheila’s”. And that was not the first time I’ve been referred to as
a Sheila since we arrived here. The same day at a winery called The Grove, the winemaker had deprecated his second growth wine as being “the one we don’t minding wasting on the Sheilas”. Just like in New Zealand, the angst of political correctness has not reached these shores.
It has only been though our tireless evaluation of the Margaret River wineries that we have been brought into personal contact with the locals. As long as a person is willing to take the raging misogyny as good natured teasing, then the folks here are very laid-back and friendly - just as they have been elsewhere in Oz. The wineries in Margaret River are spread across many square miles, and a Marlborough-style bicycle tour here could never work unless you were Lance Armstrong. All the best estates have driveways stretching on for miles through stately parkland. The panorama is often enhanced by attractive deer grazing here and there. Countless cellar doors offer free tastings of their various wines, and had we not been strictly spitting them out these past few days we would have ended up in quite a state every time. As things are, our wine tasting has been
informed, objective and sober. Gert and Barbara would be proud of us. Ian somehow manages to sound learned and insightful when we talk to the vintners, and we have often been favoured with extra samples of their not-usually-for-tasting wines. As for me, I am happy to report I’ve not confused the spittoon with the water jug yet, and that, dear blogmates, is all that matters.
Despite a crisp little hint of autumn in the air, we have managed to get our walking boots on. Although there are a few walking tracks marked out in this region, this is not really hiking country, unfortunately. The walks that do exist are often short , or just straight lines. We have done the ‘Rails to Trails’ route, which follows the disused railway track, and we have done the ‘Chimney’ walk, the highlight of which was a visit to a defunct brick chimney belonging to a former saw mill. The chimney was built in 1961. I know Australia can’t really offer much in the way of urban antiquity, but to make a feature of something from the sixties seemed like a bit of a piss-take. (And yet, despite ourselves, we were strangely compelled
to pose for a photo with it.) The walks occasionally took us through mature Karri forest, and this is where things do start to look really Australian. With the sun shining onto the flaky bark of the tree trunks, the pale dry leaves above, and the vibrant red earth underfoot, the palette is distinctly Australian, and very different from the colours of the countryside back at home.
One day, we took a drive out to the Region’s southern coastline, where The Indian Ocean to the west meets the Southern Ocean to the south. There, the Leeuwin Light House keeps watch from the shore. We sat for a while on the smooth, russet rocks that lead down to the rolling sea below. The ocean wasn’t angry that day, but the waves rolled powerfully and unrelentingly. Pretty little crabs scampered about on the lower rocks, and occasionally they would get a shower from the sea spray.
We have fallen into a new little habit here in Margaret River. We have started to visit the umpteen local galleries which are dotted around the area. They exhibit paintings, furniture, ceramics, and that sort of thing. Knowing that we can’t buy anything -
homeless and travelling, as we are - makes the activity ‘risk-free’. Although admiring and scorning the various exhibits is merely an academic exercise, I am encouraged that Ian’s taste and mine seem to be coinciding more often. The fact that half the objets on show are truly grotesque perhaps plays a part in it.
Anyway, enough of all that. We must leave our forest home tomorrow, bid farewell to the parrots and return ourselves and our little red Toyota to Perth. Our dear, kind, slightly mad Cousin Carol has given us some house keys, so whether she, Paul and Molly the cat like it or not, Ian and I will be landing at their place once again on Tuesday. However, we can only stay one night; our three hour flight Exmouth - a small marine eco-tourism town in the far northern corner of Western Australia - departs early on Wednesday morning.
We concluded our travel arrangements for Exmouth just a few days ago, and the planning has been extremely fraught. I’ll explain the details in the next blog. For now, I can only say that it will require a singularly expansive expression of inter-species goodwill on the part
A 1961 "historical" chimney
This is pretty much ancient history to the Aussies of these famous whale sharks to adequately compensate us for the effort and butt-clenching expense of flying up to swim with the bloody creatures in the first place. So, whale sharks, please take note!!
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Jenny
non-member comment
Watch out for the sharks!
No comments added yet after your mammoth entry so just wanted you to know your literary efforts are appreciated. Hope you're not getting too close to the sharks in Exmouth! Hi to carol, paul and molly the cat xxx Jenny xxx