Gloucester & The Barrington Tops

Thursday 

It's rare that I travel alone, save for regular trips to Sydney to spend time with my Dad and on those, it's usually only the pleasure of driving the Putty Road south into Windsor that equates to anything other than "getting there". There is after all, the scent of Jack Brabham on the wheel of any over fifty Australian male's steering wheel. The young have to be content with Mark Webber loitering there to influence those drives taken on challenging roads alone.

Sedate is created by wives.

Therefore, the chance to have two days almost alone, travelling partially across country I have always wanted to see, was attractive. It wasn't a chance created immediately by choice.

Several months ago - six in fact - I fulfilled the first part of a wish I had harboured since becoming well. I desperately wanted to re-engage the skills I had fine honed in teaching and to put something back into the mental health system I had taken out. As a result, I went to Brisbane and trained to be a community presenter for the Black Dog Institute.

My first assignment came with a request for me to deliver two presentations on the one day at Gloucester High School, with the focus being on Teenage Depression. With resources in place and a presentation tailored to reflect both the research of the BDI and my experiences, I set myself the leisurely drive to Gloucester from Tamworth.

A couple of things made the start of the journey difficult.

Firstly, the GPS decided it wanted me to go the most banal way, something unnatural for me. As often happens, it knows little beyond bitumen and white lines, so I turned the sound off and applied prior knowledge to the task. This meant leaving Tamworth to the east, by turning off the New England Highway at Nemingha and following the Peel River Valley as far as Dungowan, before avoiding the turn off to Nundle and heading up the ever narrowing Dungowan Valley along the Ogunbil Rd.

Before I had the chance to set the tyres beyond Dungowan, I remembered a piece of equipment I would need for the presentation and despite the half hour time loss and a fifty kilometres back upon my tracks detour, there was little choice. School zones and slow drivers and buses and farm trucks didn't help.

It didn't kill me so I tried to act stronger and with no audience to be angry for, I just accepted this little quirk in fate.

At second glance, this was pretty country along the Dungowan Valley, with short river flats of rich soil under the feet of satisfied cattle and an interesting collection of occupants of small holdings with a liberal share of artists and other dreamers among them. It feels remote, despite being only 40kms from the coffee shops in the main street of Tamworth.

Eventually, the valley exhausts itself as the walls close in, the road narrows and climbs up the Port Stephens Cutting (B). The cutting follows the path of one of the first routes created by the AA Company back in 1835 to take wool from the Peel River runs down to Port Stephens and Newcastle.

Despite the RTA spending millions on this pass over the mountains, it remains a little more than one car wide in the tightest of spots as it winds 5kms to a T-intersection with the Niangla Rd. Driving with the window down, you'll hear oncoming traffic before you'll see it and the sharp rise to over 1300m means you won't need air-con on even the hottest days. After the winding bits are over and you turn right at the intersection, its another 15kms to Hams Corner and the Thunderbolt Way.

I taught at my next stop, Nowendoc (C), in the early 1980's, I remember the days when this road was dirt and most unpleasant in wet weather. In some ways, the very comfortable tar which has replaced it takes some enthusiasm from the drive. Despite this, nature can still draw courage from drivers who tackle the road on winter's nights as the fog rolls up the Dungowan Valley and rolls across the tops heading east.

At Nowendoc, I stopped at the shop, the only commercial business in Nowendoc. The benches are still outside where I sat drinking "long necks" with men from the two timber mills which were once the life force of the place but have long since closed. The large bare rolling hills to the north, with their piles of burnt left overs and bareness, are testament to the pine planks which have passed through saws in this place. Saws did more that rip and tear at timber. Men died here or were disfigured. "Wingy", the former owner of the shop was one of them.

When I first came to Nowendoc in 1981, with a young wife and a younger marriage, Wingy was one of the characters here. They were a collection Tim Winton might have been proud to collate. Wingy had only his left arm to conduct business, after losing his right when it was torn from shoulder by one of the big saws. Determination will paper over even the most profound cracks and he learned to do more than manage. First he drove the big timber jinkers, transporting logs to the mill. The word was, when you saw Wingy's big blue truck coming the other way, you got well off the road because he liked to wave. He refused a lighter and taught himself to strike matches left handed because his natural right had left him. He played darts like a demon, nearly throwing himself of his feet with each unbalanced lunch at the board. He was a fabulous table tennis player and won the A Grade championship at Walcha Golf Club.

He was just one of the cast.

Sue and I lived in Bridlevale, a wooden three bedroom house located in one of the sudden deep valleys immediately to the east of the village. It was built in the best bush carpentry traditions with gaps below and above all the closing surfaces and nothing in square. They windows kept some of the wind out except the noisy drafts of July and August. It was there our first was conceived.

I ordered tea in the vastly different interior of the shop I remembered and chatted with the Kim who was working for the owners. As I sat back to recollect, a familiar face came in for milk on slightly bowed but very tall legs. Herbert Higgins was and still is a grazier, keeping a few hundred acres now just to keep his hand in. He is also a very interesting and interested man. An avid gatherer of information and interesting facts, he tells story with the pace and inflection of a bushie, beguiling me as a young man into thinking he was simple before the surprise of his intellect embarrassed me. Age has created empathy in his view of people and experience has created understanding. In the mood for a chat, it was a half hour investment which made my life richer by such important increments. My mum's core belief, that there is always time for a cuppa and chat, again proved to be a paradigm that required no shifting.

Beyond morning tea, I was soon descending off the range into the valley of the upper reaches of the Manning River. Steep and at times winding, it's guard rails, signposts and good bitumen surface have made it into a Sunday afternoon drive. Thirty years ago, even the thought of such aids to passage were a long way from my mind when I would ascend on a Saturday night, terrified of Skippy and on one occasion, out of fuel. After an afternoon playing cricket in Gloucester and more beers than I needed for the task, the 80km drive home across a mountain pass with potholes and fallen rocks as large as bowling balls, loose surface and a long drop and the occasional nocturnal biped ready to kamikaze into your car, was always gladly finished.

I arrived in Gloucester (D) in perfect time to set up for the first of my presentations and in between it and the second, I relaxed at my accommodation.

The King St Motel is a converted house, which is more bed and breakfast than motel. Beautifully refurbished in a very modern style, it has a central kitchen and entertainment area from which its eight rooms stem. My room was an en suite queen room with tv, bathrobes, bar fridge and all the ups and down and ins and out. Breakfast was a choice between continental (packaged in your fridge) or a full breakfast cooked by the hosts to order. Ample off street parking is provided. If that's not enough, then the pool will likely tick all your boxes.

I dined at Roadies Cafe, which is nothing like it sounds. Decor is fifties/sixties, with an accent on motor vehicles. A number of classic motorbikes share the space with diners. The food I had was excellent and the choice broad enough to cater for all. A few cold Lashes weren't bad either.

Friday

On the road by 8:00am, I was looking forward to driving over new ground.

Gloucester Mountain towered above the town, glowering in the early morning sun. Every September, it is the setting of a gruelling triathlon as competitors ride bikes, paddle canoes and run up, down and around it. "Because its there" wouldn't be enough for me.

Its only a few minutes drive to Barrington (E), gateway to the real mountains of the Barrington Tops, which are hidden from view in Gloucester. This small village rose from Scottish settlers in the 1850's who grew wheat. By the 1960's, it was a well established dairy area but the Barrington River and the mountains which loom above bring tourist dollars which now drive the economy.

Just after crossing the Barrington River, I took the turnoff to Scone which would take me over the rather large lump of imposing ranges which make up the Barrington Tops and the climbing started immediately. The passage onto the tops took me first over the Copeland tops, a steep rise through tiny communities which hug the steep sides of narrow gullies made by creeks which run most of the year. The mixture of old farm houses and alternate designs is interesting. I was soon consumed by the state forests and twice lyrebirds darted quickly from the roadside and up steep banks into the forest above and to the right.

The climbing suddenly gives way to a large open plain at the point where the Kerripit and Dilgry Rivers join the Barrington. The sudden transition from a steep winding road surrounded by dense forest and it's attendant darkness, to an open plain of native grasses was dramatic. This is Copeland (F), although nothing remains to prove it once was a lively area crawling with a population of 1100, most of the miners. The open plain was tree covered before George and Bartlett Saxby discovered gold at Back Creek in 1875. Trees became props and rigs in the 51 mines which operated here.

The start of the final climb (G) onto the Barrington Tops themselves begins about 10 kms further on, where the Cobark River joins the Dilgry. It's steep and winds along, clinging to the edge like so many eastern state mountain climbs, with hopeful guideposts the only man made sentinels protecting cars from taking the fast way down. The thickness of the trees are nature's protection. Here, you climb the snakes - the road - and you fall down the ladders - the steep sides of the mountain.

The start of the Barrington Tops State Park (H) - one of the jigsaw pieces of state reserves which together constitute the national park - provides a sudden and obvious entrance. Not only have the adjoining council erected a sign to make it clear you are leaving roads maintained by them but the National Parks have backed that up with the quality of the roadway which follows. From that point, to the end of the National Park's jurisdiction at the Dingo Gate, perhaps 35 kms to the west, the road is rough. It is rated 2WD and whilst the average family sedan would probably make the traverse with great care, there wouldn't be many nuts and bolts left on it that didn't need a tighten and the suspension would be worse for wear.

The Forester picked its way carefully ahead but then, its not a place where you'd be in a hurry. There is more of the winding, climbing stuff until you reach Cobark Rest Stop, where the first of a series of picnic spots it provided and views to the east over Bowman State Forest. From here, it mostly levels out as you travel across the top of the range. The trees are mostly snow gums and Antartic Beech - which provide a mottled light to the roadway, making spotting pot holes a lot more difficult, so I rarely exceeded 40kms/hr. A big Landcruiser bounced past at one stage with some form of government logo on the door. Its easier when you don't have to pay the bills, I guess.

The next 8 kms were much the same until Honeysuckle, where picnic tables and toilets support the 1km loop track which takes in the edge of the escarpment. On the northern side of the road are the first trickles of the Manning River. The air was crisp up here over 1500m and the first of the snow gates had been passed. In winter, this area across the Tops is regularly blanketed with snow and like all elevated regions, the weather can change rapidly. At such times, the snow gates are closed in sections or completely to prevent further incursion into areas where it would be so easy to become stuck.

I passed up the opportunity to walk out to Thunderbolt's Lookout, despite the offer of great views back over the southern sections of the park, because the track was narrow, with the distance to unseen fangs in the foliage too short. Being by myself and with no phone reception, the cost/benefit equation fell away from the benefit side of the equation. However, a few kms further on, Devil's Hole provided me with a wonderful view, not unlike those that can be seen from several vantage points at New England National Park. The track here was shorter and wider and paved, three things which gave me a fighting chance at least. Despite this, the first rustling by a penny lizard had me squeaking like a child's cheap plastic toy. I cowboyed up for the return trip to the car and only flinched twice.

At Polblue, the landscape opens up onto an area of high country wetland which has by far the largest picnic and car camping area along the traverse. There is a 3km walking track, some of it boarded, to discover the wetland. This was an unexpected and most pleasant surprise. The same could be said - minus the most pleasant - of the magpie that swooped me while I was taking photos. Cunningly, he waited until I was at the furthest point from the hard topped safety of the Forester. For some absurd reason, it had never dawned on me that magpies would nest in a national park. I put my palm on my head, with my fingers waggling skyward and returned to the car looking like some ridiculous old grey fat Foghorn Leghorn, while three park workers stood around a bladed tractor on the other side of the road, laughing.

The last and most fascinating of my stops was at The Firs (I). Driving off the road through a dense pine plantation for perhaps fifty metres, I emerged in a small circle of light surrounded by the pine trees. The width of the turning circle of an average car, this space was complete with large puddles reflecting the trees to those on the other side and visa versa. Away from the circle is darkness and the noise of branches moving against each other. I expected knights or warriors to step out from behind the pines and surround me. Among the densely planted pine trees, were large felled eucalypts and their stumps, left there after making way for the small plantation. It was as though the pine trees had won this place in a battle of timbers. It was fascinating but unlike anything I have seen in the Australian bush before.

I reached the Dingo Gate soon after and the western border of Barrington Tops National Park. The huge gate is over three metres tall but the rather large gap underneath begs one to ask the question of why they bother.

From here, it is most definitely a rapid descent. The road is very well maintained, with an even surface and plenty of rock for holding tyres ... but it's not for the faint hearted. There are few guide posts and no side rails to speak of and any drop from the edge would be fatal. I simply placed the Forester in low range and selected second gear and only touched the break twice in the 7km descent. Had I not been driving, the views would have been spectacular.

Now in the upper reaches of the Hunter River Valley (as opposed to the Hunter Valley), I drove through Moonan until picking up the New England Highway at Scone and then on to home.

Photos of Barrington Tops from the trip

NOTE: Capitalised letters in brackets represent points on "Today's Map".

Advice For Travellers

Peter Langston
Poet and international traveller

After two days at the home of Sue's generous sister Mandy and brother-in-law Joel and their cute kids Ava and Jack, we climbed aboard a Qantas Link Dash 8 on our last leg(s) for home. Literally climbed aboard, after a short walk across the tarmac and exposure to a warm spring day, we climbed the stairs, banged our heads on the obstacle placed there specifically for the purpose and strapped ourselves in.

It was a quick trip - about 45 minutes - barely enough time to gulp down a cup of warm tea and sugar-loaded slice, which even the kids in front of me refused to eat. Then we were down and I was kissing the hallowed ground of home - literally did bend down and give the tarmac a peck. The boys met us, hugs were exchanged and instead of going to the house, we went to town for the mochas we had been missing for two months. Its a priority thing.

We spent the afternoon unpacking and remarking on the small things in our life - things you suddenly notice when they have stopped being familiar. Dinner was with the boys and dutiful Jacqueline Fraser, who identified herself as one of the loyal followers to have read every post on this website during our journey. There is probably treatment for this but I'm afraid we may have made her addiction worse by showing photos from the trip.

We eventually slipped into our wonderful bed at 11:00pm and sank quickly into blissful sleep which remained uninterrupted until a decent hour this morning.

It has been an amazingly fulfilling eight weeks for my roomie and I. Quite apart from the things we have seen, the people we have met, the myths we have debunked and the stereotypes we have exposed for their lack of perception, we have closed a gap between us that my illness opened as long ago as the early 1990's. As these eight weeks have been so life affirming, I feel its important to pass on the key lessons we have learned from our time away. Please take them under advisement:

• when crossing Abbey Road, you gain an eerie closeness to John Lennon, especially when the #189 bus screeches to halt a metre away as you stand frozen waiting for a photo;
• Mediterranean beaches are the best places to get stoned;
• don't try and spell Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwyll-llantysiliogogogoch. Just go there ... its quicker;
• red necks would rather eat scones than photograph a poet's grave;
• in terms of fashion, almost anything goes in Paris but DVT compression stockings and shorts is a look you might want to reconsider;
• don't trust directions from a local when you have diarrhea; 
• Guinness;
• when the crash comes, the rich get poorer and the poor die;
• if your pin number doesn't work, don't ask the old lady who doesn't speak English while she is using the ATM;
• if you think you can dance like Michael Flatley, you probably can't, despite six hours of drinking;
• "Under The Bridge At Avignon" is my hat;
• if you walk into an "Aussie Bar" in the south of France, festooned in number plates, flags and pictures of Australian icons, don't be surprised if they don't speak English, don't sell Aussie beer and appear to have no interest in your nationality;
• if you drink with a roomful of Irishmen you will have no idea why they are laughing at you;
• the four strangest people you'll meet in your life will be on the Paris Metro ... most likely at the same time;
• don't go into the Monte Carlo Casino and ask for "tokens for the pokies";
• if you are late for the bus, don't run heroically for three kms and gasp "please, wait for my wife!" and turn to find her right behind you; 
• when shown the grave of Princess Grace, don't say "Princess who?";
• Crocodile Dundee becomes hilarious in French;
• three out of four B & B's won't be strange;
• never say "what else could go wrong";
• don't become famous or pigeons will shit on you;
• most people look stupid in a bright green Loch Ness Monster hat ... except your wife;
• even if you "like" her LNM hat, you won't be allowed to buy a cape;
• bus truth is like folklore: everyone believes it, even though its obviously untrue;
• changing seats on the bus is like grandma farting - you blame someone else but everyone knows whose fault it is;
• if you don't want to cry in public, don't go and see Blood Brothers;
• time lost in a pub at lunch is an afternoon you won't care about;
• don't put important documents in a safe place because you won't think to look there;
• when trying on a new hat, don't leave your beanie on the floor;
• don't turn left;
• dress up when you go to Harrods;
• Peter Sellers' characterisation of Inspector Clouseau is entirely accurate;
• just because something looks bizarre, sounds bizarre and acts bizarre doesn't mean its not normal ... but most likely its bizarre;
• I didn't see anyone I knew at Picadilly Circus, unless Ronald McDonald counts;
• not all Germans are weird ... just the ones we met;
• its not a real argument, its not your gold ring, there is no deaf/mute school and you have less than thirty seconds to avoid a confrontation when someone ties a string on your finger;
• soldiers in black berets carrying automatic weapons don't smile;
• "you can't chip out of a German bunker";
• Alaine is unknown in Corbie
• expensive champagne can still be bought by the bottle with a chip packet full of change;
• never say yes to a question asked in another language

This, I believe.

Yamba - Day 12

Yamba holidays have a rhythm which belongs only to the two weeks we spend here in July. The first week is frenetic, full of family events, catch ups, jokes at usually the older brother's expense and the ticking of boxes to make sure we fulfil our expectations of the place, of the event.

The second week is so different. The pace is so slow that rust forms on the pair of us and is only brushed away during periods of sporadic activity. We sleep late, breakfast later, ramble on long walks, linger over coffee or lunch and read books in the afternoon. In between, we even engage in adult parlour games to remind us of our past levels of testosterone and fitness, safe in the knowledge that those aches and pains during and afterward are of no real concern to doctors back home.

The only fixed appointment in this week without diary is sunset at the Pacific Hotel. This week, Sue has used red wine and snacks as the fishing boats go out to work, as an opportunity to tap away on the iPad and gather intel about Paris and London, whilst I have have extinguished Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 and books of poems by CJ Dennis and Cate Kennedy.

It was just so today.

We had lunch at the Bean Scene (this years favourite) and whilst Sue shopped or browsed or did what ever it was she needed to do for three hours among the limited shops of Yamba, I went back to the flat and sank into deep chairs with a book. Billys Thorpe and Bragg provided company as it drizzled rain and the surf beat itself into a larger lather at the end of the street (have you heard Tangiers yet?).

Sue returned with a pair of $4 jeans which will grow into a retail legend to make her sisters cry in the retelling.

We finished at the pub but ate dinner at home.

If you were expecting Tolstoy today, I dare say you are disappointed. It seemed more peace than war to us.

Yamba - Day 10

Lots of walking today. We travelled 6kms in all, with our first decent walk of the holiday which took in Lovers Point and Pippi Beach in the morning and then town in the afternoon.

Coffee and shopping in town, Sue had her ears pierced for the third time on Yamba holidays but all through the same spot on her ear lobes. She has just never managed to maintain the anchor point very well or worn the wrong ear rings and infection and laziness has caused the site to repair. Don't understand the whole/hole puncturing thing but to each their own. Sue also grabbed groceries whilst I just wandered, grazing on retail until finding myself, inevitably, in the bookshop. An illustrated history of Led Zeppelin seemed so reasonable and lonely that it will return with me to Tamworth.

In between walks we had home made bread rolls for lunch, stuffed with salad.

Pacific Hotel at sunset and a longer than usual stay. We met an interesting couple - Celestine and Bill - who opened the conversation by commenting on my Hawaiian shirts, a ploy which made them immediately interested. Bill is a retired TAFE teacher - among other things - and Celestine (spelling?) a Careers Advisor in high school education. Of course, these are just their jobs, rarely a definition of the person. How often do we meet people and ask them their job in order to box them into a stereotype? What a totally useless line of enquiry. I had a longish chat with Celestine as she was within a year of my age and had grown up in The Shire. There was much to be compared.

I took this willingness to engage as a sign the dark clouds had passed.

Early night after watching Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis in "The Outoftowners", a very funny Neil Simon story of a couple who travel to New York for his job interview. He's a left-mode, super organised, list following man whose world falls apart when planes run late, hotels give his room to someone else, transport systems are on strike and he is twice robbed. They sleep in Central Park, steal food from a dog for breakfast and are skyjacked on the way home. Just the tonic for us who leave Australia to be at the hands of others in four weeks!

Yamba - Day 8

This is all I can show
without getting  intellectual

After greeting and then farewelling the passing parade of family who were departing Yamba during the morning, the afternoon was spent on another road trip as Sue is yet to return to pedestrian speed yet.

Before lunch, we drove to Gulmarrad Public School, the setting for the Lower Clarence Arts and Craft Exhibition. In previous years I have submitted entries in the photographic section but I have cut back on such endeavours this year. The place was alive with little old ladies protecting their intellectual ownership from mean middle aged men who night rob them of their property with a camera. I had no intention of taking shots of the artwork or the photography but was somewhat surprised when one old dear turned storm trouper and all but frog-matched me from the grounds for being rude enough to snap her friend at a spinning wheel and catch her in the background. She insisted I should have asked and when I erased the picture and asked after the event, I was given a resounding no as she stood up to her full height of 4'11" and strutted across the room to brag about her efforts to a friend. The spinner, meanwhile, said she'd be more than happy for me to take another photo and that "Agnes sometimes goes off like that". By then, I'd lost interest and declined the invitation.

At the fine art room - and some of it was fine art - I had the camera slung behind my back ... holstered as it were ... but before more than a word could be spoken, Katharine, the border guard on duty in fine art, said she remembered me from last time, knew my name and my reputation and forbid me from taking any photos. This was all news to me, as I was fairly convinced I had never previously met Katharine. Perhaps, like a regular throng of others, she thought I was Rolf Harris and the bastard ply-board flogger had been giving me a bad name by stealing the intellectual property of crafty old ladies across the length and breadth of the Lower Clarence. More likely, dementia is now a membership requirement of the LCACA.

The quilts were impressive.

Earlier, as we arrived, smithies were demonstrating the forging and manipulation of hot iron into many useful and remarkably cheap tools. They posed for photos, clearly in a state of intellectual abandonment.

We continued out along the road to the small village of Brooms Head, a postage stamp which clings to the coast mainly because of the caravan park which occupies a two level line along the water's edge. The elevated lookout is on top of the head itself and provided stunning views. In little more than a month, the coast view we'll be taking in will be in southern France. Its still disturbing our minds.

Late, late afternoon

Heading north west, we were off with the ferries for lunch, eating late at the Ferry Park Gallery at the southern turn off to Maclean from the Pacific Highway. The food was delicious but over-priced. As usual, the gallery had a wide collection of art and crafts for sale from local artisans. My favourites were a wood carved stork bent drinking in perfect arc from feet to bill and a companion piece, a fairy wren.

We returned to Yamba via the shopping centre on the outskirts of town and then left the car at the flat and walked up to the Pacific Hotel for the sunset. On the way, I snapped a pretty rainbow over the ocean. I was on solid ground. With showers sweeping across the watery landscape, the ocean was in a variety of moods from bright sunshine to grey-out conditions. It was as stunning as it was yet again different.

Quiet night in tonight.

Yamba - Day 7

Almost to the halfway mark of the holiday and rain threatened for the first time today.

With Sue feeling better every sunrise, we made our way to Pippis for breakfast. Delicious Bircher Muesli for me and eggs, bacon and mushrooms for Sue.

It was Mandy, Joel and the kids last day on a shortened tour of duty for them this year, so with Rose in tow, we undertook a car convoy to revisit starting points and explain some of them to Jack and Ava, the youngest Gibbens. Driving inland through Maclean, we crossed the bridge across the south arm of the Clarence and onto the largest riverine island in Australia, Woodford Island. Skirting down the western side of the island, out trip took us across the Lawrence vehicular ferry and the north arm of the Clarence. The crossing created a deal of excitement in the youngsters.

Lawrence lies on the other side of the ferry ride and it was a few hundred metres to the tavern. There was a chilly wind blowing from the south so we ordered lunches and ate inside. The only bar has an interesting attraction: hanging above and behind the bar on a high wall stretching up to an extended ceiling, must have been a hundred hats. Most were battered and beaten, first into shape and then into history. The vast majority were broad brimmed Aussie work hats made from pelt, leather, canvas and other tough materials. There were a few caps, a hard hat and the odd variation but mostly they had been the shade structure of honest, Aussie bushmen. The selection hanging to the right had been grabbed when left on or in the bar but it was the mob on the left which hung with poignancy for their owners could not longer claim them and sat up n the wall as a permanent reminder of mates lost but not forgotten.

After lunch, we crossed the Clarence again and a few kms after retracing our steps towards Maclean, turned off on the Roberts Creek Rd and headed to the heart of the island. The road follows Roberts Creek, which is not as it seems. After weeks of generous rain, "Roberts Creek" is a series of deepening puddles in depressions which will join only in times of flood. The "creek" flows at no other time. Towards the end of Roberts Creek Rd, we turn down a single vehicle dirt road which enjoys the traffic of tractors and farm machinery more than it does cars. It was along this narrow road, Gibbens Lane, that Rose, Mandy and Sue once travelled to and from the family farm which fronted the lane about half way along its length. They travelled it again today, with a more family tread than previous times in the adult lives, to stand outside the fence line and imagine the house on brick piers which were never high enough to keep snakes from floating in the house during a flood. I was told again where the dairy used to stand and anecdotes which were subsets of that fact. I love going back there even though my eyes can only see the farm buildings and five bare foot kids, their burdened mother and the straight back and honest sweat of their father through their recounts. Its more than enough.

Leaving Gibbens Lane, we made brief stops at the site of what had been the South Arm School and the remains of their house, modified and moved from the flood prone flats, up to Red Hill. We followed the road along the South Arm and soon found ourself back at the McFarlane Bridge which joins Maclean to Woodford Island. Afternoon tea was a combination of milkshakes, coffees, babychinos and red spiders, in a cafe in Maclean.

The return journey was marked by rain as we drove into Yamba.

In the evening, we had a meal out at Sol's Cantina, making the Sydney mob's departure in the morning. It was noisy and I don't do noisy very well but the food was fair and the company I could hear was good.

Yamba - Day 6

Gumby and Co

Sue woke improved after the application of antibiotics and lots of sleep, so after breakfast and some balcony sunshine, was able to walk the short distance to Pippi's - our close and handy cafe/restaurant - where we met up with Rose. We discussed our businesses, past lives, present successes and future directions.

Rose returned with us to the flat when Sue's health licence expired and Mandy and daughter Ava joined us soon after for a late morning modelling class but nothing Miranda Kerr would ever have taken part in. This was plasticine "in the round", with all but me taking part in the shaping of best examples of the art and the display of same on the central table. Pride soon turned to panic as the colourful creations of furtive imaginations soon imitated the Wicked Witch of the West and could be heard screaming "I'm melting, I'm melting" as the hot winter sun slacked their spines and puddled the aspirations of creator and creation.

Rose was good enough to be Susie Sitter Sister whilst I walked into town to post the box of shells Ava and I had collected for my daughter Sarah. A Yamba shell held in the pocket can fix many a problem and ward of even the most persistent demons, so we sent her a box of them because placed in a bag, they could play merry hell with a demon's face.

Encouraged by the the Wobbly One, I had lunch in town - a bacon and egg roll and a bowl of fruit salad and yogurt washed down with tea - and then walked home. They were both asleep in the same position I left them, although they assured me they had absented themselves from the bed to devour lunch. I'm not sure I'm that gullible.

Sue and I are great walkers, especially on holidays and by now, had this been a "normal" Yamba, we would already have thirty kms up for the week but as Sue's head had wanted to walk in circles, then smaller circles  and then not at all, we have been missing our long walks, geography lessons and hands held to bind us to this life we have made ...

... so, in an effort to make amends, we went for a drive instead. On Pacific Parade, which runs behind Pippi Beach, I got some spectacular snaps of three guys riding para-boards ... surfboards with wind sail kites attached. The waves were choppy and the wind gusty so their manoeuvres were pretty exciting. As I was taking photos, the wind blew my cap off. After finishing, it looked like I had lost my cap because I couldn't see it anywhere until an nice old lady pointed out it was at my feet. Doh!

Next stop was Main Beach, scene of many of Sue's greatest Yamba achievements, many of them involving boys not buoys.

Lone surfer

At Turners Beach, I got some good snaps. One in particular, of an older surfer sitting with his board on the sand watching the waves and readying himself to go out, was a goodie. Seagulls and rocks and trees also become subjects. From there, we went to the Yamba Wharf which reminded me to make a booking for the Jazz Cruise on Sunday. We went last year and had a ball listening and dancing to a five piece, and enjoying a cheese platter and a few bottles of red. A very pleasant way to spend four hours on the Clarence.

Further west, we drove down Carrs Rd to Oyster Channel. Our children will remember this as the place where I bogged the Nissan Patrol and their mother instructed them in the merits of discretion being ultimately the far superior part valour. I dropped it to the back axil in mud and water, ruined a pair of joggers suck-stepping around the car to inspect what the fool driving had caused and then coloured the day with language unbecoming. These were back in my days of being a turd. We eventually got out thanks to luck, although at the time I talked up my skill to an appreciative but hardly gullible audience. Home was home no matter what pretence it took to get you there. There were no such dramas today - the track is blocked by large boulders, not just the "do not enter" signs which were there previously. It looked a quiet place to sit and read ... as long as no Nissan Patrols turned up.

It was late in the afternoon, so we drove back into Yamba and had coffee as the staff packed up around us at Caperberry's, before I returned Sue back to the flat, no worse for wear. I went out to the Plaza to hunt and gather, with Dylan and then John Mayer blasting in the white ear pieces whist people smiled at me dancing up aisle three amongst the pasta sauces. Don't talk to me about surrealism Salvador.

Buritos for dinner and then out to Lance's place for the evening and a chance to catch up with nephew John - Lance and ex-wife Jenny's son. He's taller and still has an easy smile and is always pleasant to spend time with. It was a nice night. Sue felt well enough to give her brother heaps but then, she'd need to be in a box not to do that. She lasted to ten o'clock and then, apparently concerned I would turn back into a house mouse and the Forester into a pumpkin, she yawned instructions to be taken home.

I squeaked agreement and took her arm for the dangerous passage down stairs, upstairs and into bed.

Tired now, I'll clean my whiskers and dream of cheese.

Yamba - Day 5

It might seem to readers of "Travels With Pete & Sue" that reporting on our time at Yamba is like recounting paradise. Today was a day which redressed that.

Sue has been feeling increasingly light headed for the past week. Since we arrived at Yamba, each day has been a little worse. At times, she has had to sit and wait it out but by last night, it was becoming chronic. This morning, things were worse again and nausea was now added to the mix. With things clearly deteriorating and in the light of other events planned for the day, I sought a doctor's appointment for her, believing the problem was a middle ear infection which was a secondary development from the bronchitis and sinus infection which had floored her two weeks earlier.

Finding a doctor proved problematic ... well, not so much finding one but getting past their receptionists. The first told me that her man was a locum and therefore didn't take appointments (what?) and the second reported that her man was only working half a day tomorrow but I could ring at 8:00am and compete with others for an appointment. I needed to be prepared for the fact that appointments were set aside for locals.

Frustrated, I resorted to taking Sue to outpatients at Maclean Hospital. They were unhappy that the doctors in Yamba were more hypocrite than Hippocratic but never the less did their very best. The hospital has relatively new facilities - very few scuff marks on the walls or door jams from wheel chairs and trolleys - and looked well resourced  in everything but doctors. The one doctor on duty was dealing with five patients inside the ER and five outside and it was remarkable we were able to leave inside two hours. The diagnosis was in concord with Dr Langston and Sue left with strong antibiotics and stimitil for the nausea.

Gibbens and Thomas clans

Despite feeling like an end-stage drunk but with more money in her pocket, Sue insisted on fulfilling a commitment to a family reunion which she had organised with Brian Thomas, the youngest of three cousins Sue and her siblings had grown up with on the Lower Clarence. Brian had bumped into us several times at Yamba and after apologising profusely, the pair of them hatched a plan for a lunch at the Pacific Hotel during which the families could get together. The common link was Brian's dad - David - being the brother of Sue's mother - Joy. Brian's sisters, Anne and Karen, were both there, as well as their parents, David and Marcia. It was all very friendly and pleasant, chatting and eating in the glass protected sunshine of the dining room and a group photograph was produced at the end as well as plans for future meetings. Karen, for instance, comes to Tamworth most years for horse events so Sue issued an invitation to stay with us.

All of this happened in the context of Sue feeling dreadful and deteriorating so we didn't stay anywhere near as long as either of us would have liked and instead made our apologies. By the time I got Sue home, she collapsed on the bed, a victim of her middle ear and the stimitil, which not only settles the stomach but also induces sleep. She slept the afternoon away

It was the intention that we host the Gibbens mob during the evening but this was also abandoned and instead I made Sue pasta with a tomato based sauce. She took her medication, ate half of the meal and went back to sleep. I watched the deciding State of Origin game, by myself, with the volume reduced to virtual silence. I missed my sons enthusiasm and noise. It had all the appeal of eating soggy cardboard and pretending it was mudcake. In between tries, I visited Sue by stealth to assure myself she was okay. In the end, I stayed sitting beside her for so long, just watching her breath and wishing my super powers included making troubles absent themselves from the ones I love, that I missed Cronk's field goal. I met the news with an appropriate shrug. There are somethings more important than football.

One day, I might say the same of cricket ... but that day seems a fair way off yet.

Better luck tomorrow ... maybe.

Yamba - Day 4

Sunset behind, moonrise ahead

The morning started with the obligatory breakfast on the balcony and sometime mid morning Sue wandered to the beach whilst I finished drafting a new poem. Timing my run, I joined her with coffee before she had her dose of the white water. She can no longer body surf or go much beyond waist level owing to the power of the water and the twists and contortions it might place upon her lower back, so she allows the low waves to wash past her instead. Its a poor substitute for a beach babe but better than being land locked.

While she watched Mandy boogey board, Mandy's daughter Ava and I gathered shells along the beach for Sarah. Many were broken, pulverised by the storm surged waves and high tides which have removed the sand from Main Beach and have largely replaced it with smooth rocks up to fist size. Despite this, we managed to find shells of differing shapes and colours and quantities to make a reasonable collection. Ava lovingly washed and sorted them and stored them in a bag for me to take to the post office. What a sweetie.

Back to the balcony for lunch.

Sue and I went for a walk into the village during the afternoon and coffee at one of the haunts. I was left soon after, Sue and Mandy having most important business to attend to which included wax and dye and eyebrows. Some mysteries are best left ravelled.

I wandered the shops, stopping several times to chat with proprietors. The most enjoyable of these chats was with Nicole at Corindelo Arts & Crafts. Her and her husband were originally from Toowoomba, where they operated a locksmiths business but both had a desire for another life, in another place. Nicole is an artist who has ventured into wheel thrown pottery in the last few years and Rob likes working with wood. The bench top of the service counter in the shop is a highly polished single piece of irregularly shaped wood which speaks loudly of Rob's talent. Their shop is an eclectic mix of items, some tourist, some artistic but its the back galleries which drew me in, with their collection of paintings and ceramics. They are still in the early stages of their arts journey, which is far less important than the fact they are heading out.

From the shopping centre I walked to the breakwall and then climbed the stairs to the lighthouse and headland beneath. Its always a breathtaking view. Then it was home past the Pacific Hotel, down to Main Beach and along the platform in the late afternoon to discover a multitude of recreational users. A couple in their thirties combed rock pools with their young kids, pointing out creatures and colours to their excited students. Fishermen cast long rods to lazy fish. A reverse generation gap had been set up by coincidence on adjacent rocks. A women in her late forties sat reading from a laptop, making sporadic satisfied entries followed by hand to mouth laughing as though it was illegal to enjoy yourself in such a setting. Not far away sat a boy in his late teens, ensconced in a paperback. Both were no more than three metres from an ocean which pounded the rock platform in its tireless desire to tear it down. Juxtaposition has probably never been so sweetly exampled.

Senioritis and margaritas

Returning to the flat, I was informed I would be left alone for sunset drinks at the Pacific Hotel. Sue hand stood me up for margaritas at the cantina. Pity. It was probably the best reverse sunset I have seen, accompanied as it was by a full moon, the rolling surf and the fishing fleet heading out to sea. I wrote bitter poetry for those I know trapped by the cruelty of others and drank one too many reds but all in a good cause.

Unification over meatballs, then we retired to Rose's flat for the evening patter.

Yamba - Day 3

I spent the morning writing. Yamba has been a rich place to mine and refine ideas from raw materials into the stories I need to tell. "Head Full of Whispers" alone had six of them. This morning I drafted some ideas, only one of them enthusing me and the others might well stay as dot points but at least they are no longer "whispers".

Sue was late to the beach and initially missed connections with family but the tribal drums soon beat rhythms of meeting places and she was able to find Mandy & Joel at Turners Beach. By the time they had toed the water and played at beach babes and then wandered back into town, I joined them. As always with Mandy & Joel, the conversation was swift, interesting, often funny and with that enveloping warmth the best of family brings to the table. We probably enjoy their company more than anyone else we know. For me, Joel has become a good mate (despite being a Manly supporter) and Mandy the intelligent, witty, funny little sister I never had. Time with her warms my soul.

After this morning tea/lunch time interlude - its not always easy to tell on Yamba Time - I was able to secure a place for "Head Full of Whispers" at the Yamba Bookshop. The proprietor, Helen Anderson, is a strong supporter of independent publishers and authors and welcomed the opportunity of stocking my second collection of poetry. It also gives me a convenient excuse to return to Yamba in three months to check on returns.

We had many good intentions for a long walk during the afternoon but I became lost in creating words and Sue in reading them so sunset was nearly upon us before we realised that much of the day was gone. We made it to the glass walled bar of the Pacific Hotel in time to watch blue become pink and then black on the eastern horizon, as the sun retreated to warm some other place, leaving the moon to ignite silver sparks on the rolling high tide below us. A Taylor's Cab Sav helped accentuate the view. Sue watched the ocean as I watched the people gathered to worship with beers and phone cameras, their conversation punctuated by the silences of Google searches to win one argument or another.

Dinner was steak cooked on the Weber which now lives on our balcony. Like the completely reworked kitchen, its a new addition to our two bedroom flat on Clarence St, just behind Main Beach. Now in our eighth year in the same digs, we are always surprised to be paying the same tariff as that first year, especially when things change. Last year it was a flat screen TV but the change this year smacks of preparations for the owners to retire here. A farming couple from the New England Tablelands, its seems unlikely that such an investment as a new kitchen would be made unless occupancy was imminent. Next year may be a new place and a shock as most places are $200 dearer now.

We spent several evening hours with family at Mandy and Joel's place. It was the usual round of cut and thrust. The eldest, Lance, accords himself full local status after being a wannabe who arrived annually from Melbourne for many years. He is the reason we started coming here eighteen years ago. For all the Gibbens, it was their childhood home, back in the day. Lance is developing the full blown aging surfer/hippy look but the personality needs more change to keep pace. The hard edged cynic still lives inside the long hair and hair band. In order to honour his new appearance, we all wore hair bands last night, a fact not noticed until my red plastic strip showed prominently in my white hair. It doubled as a show of strength for St George, who showed none of the same losing again last night. The evening devolved into half an hour of discussion which started with confident statements saying Monty Python films aren't funny when you watch them now and ended with us all wetting ourselves as we quoted from "The Life Of Brian" and "The Holy Grail".

Go figure.

The dark cloud on our evening was news from Sydney. Sarah had been assaulted in a robbery attempt on her suburban street in Dulwich Hill. The outcome was subsequently better than it might have been but I'm sick of Sarah having to be tested by these ordeals. My sleep was difficult and ended by a dream I haven't endured for ten years.

Tea ... writing ... patience ... and eventually sunrise.