Eyre, we go.

Day 9

- being the last leg of our Eyre Peninsula road trip in honour of Australia Day 2015.

In the morning we caught up with the Internet by setting up in the lovely old reception lounge of the hotel. And we had breakfast in the old breakfast room. The new owner was running around clearly in the throes of getting to grips with the new hotel. She and her husband were not too experienced at running a pub. They were Queenslanders giving it a go. That explained a lot. One wishes them well. It is a fabulous old pub and one would like to see it thrive in that Gateway to the Outback town.

As I began to pack the car for the day's travel, I noticed a flat tyre. Oh, no! I phoned the RAA which sent a mechanic from a nearby town. Oddly, despite Kimba's status as the significant town half way across Australia, it did not have an RAA man. When the lad turned up, he swiftly identified the cause. A wooden kebab stick. It protruded from one side of the tyre. A little wooden skewer could cripple a big, healthy Toyota Rav? A modern tyre can be vulnerable to a prick of wood? What are kebab skewers doing out on the dirt roads?

My mind spun with theories. After all, we had criticised the food last night. Chef's revenge? Bruce just laughed and called me fanciful. The RAA mechanic said he had seen them flatten tyres before. No big deal. The tyre was changed in no time. The RAA guy directed us to a garage where the wounded tyre could be mended to return to service as the spare tyre.

And off we went to experience a country tyre depot. Another nice, chatty country mechanic. He was only slightly surprised at the kebab stick phenomenon. And soon we were on our way again.

They were pretty good roads out of Kimba, the countryside flattening out as we headed towards the Gulf. Wonderful big skies.

We stopped at Iron Knob and poked around the neat little town with its grid-pattern layout. It was once quite a vibrant town with a rich mining enterprise. Now it is quaint and quite characterful in a yesterday's boom way.

The museum was open and very pleasant indeed, manned by very friendly volunteers. We watched a little film about Iron Knob's heydays and explored all the specimens and souvenirs. I bought a lovely hematite necklace.

And off we set for Port Augusta and that motel we so like. it did not disappoint, albeit the pool was extremely cold and not too clean. We met up with Roseanne again and had a daylight tour which revealed the strange salty world of the very tippy top of the Spencer Gulf, just a brackish puddle really. This side, Eyre Peninsula. That side, Yorke Peninsula. Hop to and fro. Tee hee.

All around, a fantastic saltbush landscape with the glorious Flinders Ranges always imposing in the background. Roseanne thought nothing of putting her foot down and bringing those beautiful ranges a whole lot closer. We were almost into Horrocks Pass when she found what she wanted to show us - fields of wild lilies. Rare and special lilies. Growing where they belong. They don't bloom often, she said. Pity I forget their name. We wandered around amid them, free and happy. A treat of nature.

Finally, as light began to fade, we headed back to her house for dinner. She and Paul live on the outskirts of the town with a magnificent view of the mighty Flinders Ranges across the corrugated iron fences around their property. She had prepared a wonderful meal. Paul appeared after an hour or two and produced music and French red wine. Roseanne faded into the background while he held forth. Somehow, their world and relationship made me think of a Patrick White play - which made it all the more interesting and absorbing. They are both brilliant, accomplished and idiosyncratic individuals and I loved seeing them in situ.

Day 10

The long road home.

Eyre apparent

Day 7

- of a road trip in honour of Australia Day, 2015.

Cosy in our neat little self-contrained cabin, we start the day with coffee and Bruce's chilli scrambled eggs. Unfortunately, the Internet remains a nightmare. We struggle uselessly trying to download the papers or get the mail and then give up, packing the car, filling up with petrol at the Elliston Liberty station and hitting the open road again.

The roads are fabulous. The countryside is divine. We've learned a lot about the history of the area and how the landscape is haunted by tales of the lonely graves and Ellen Liston's stories.

Having read Gail Wiseman's Bringing the Stones, our imaginations are lured out into the miles of sandy, rocky coastal no man's land. Pioneers traversed it on horse or foot. It is beautiful, but harsh and arid. And yet, intrepid settlers built houses and fences and employed itinerant shepherds who dwelt way out there for years on end in crude huts. Relationships with the Aboriginal people of the area were often tense and violent. Ellen Liston wrote vividly on the issue in her short stories of the 1800s when she was a governess way out there in the rugged wilderness.

We asked for directions to find a famous murder spot of John Hamp ..but we fail to find it.

What we do find on the road north is the Woolshed Cave. I was prompted to take the detour by a road sign which had the added word "spectacular". Down dirt side roads we bumped to discover one of the most breathtakingly beautiful of natural phenomena I have ever sighted. Another brilliant council engineering job of providing easy stairs made it comfortable to descend the dangerous cliffs to get close to this magnificent, marvellous interplay of rock and sea, the thing of dreams. And we walked upon huge flat rocks which seem to have melted onto each other in soft folds. There was a channel of incoming water, rich green with sandy base and weedy sides,softly ebbing to and fro with the tidal flow. Huge fish darted in the pristine water beside the wafting green fringes. This lovely inlet through deep cuts of rock, leads into a big, dangerous-looking cave. One does not venture too close but looks from a safe vantage point.

Back on the road. Next stop, Venus Bay. We poke around and pee in yet another impeccable public loo.

Then we're heading to Port Kenny for lunch on our way. Who recommended that? Was it a joke? Oh, my. Port Kenny stank, stank, stank of putrid septic whiff. Sad, dead, ugly, smelly. Pub sad and for sale. Ordinary people ordering schnitzels. We walk around inside looking at the sad menu, feeling extremely deterred. Can't face anything here. Ugh.

Drive on hungrily to our destination for the night, the lovely Streaky Bay. The most appealing lunch place looking towards the sea was closed. We settled on a yuppified old corner building called the FunktionCentre. It is rather cute-looking in a self-consciously rustic way but, sadly, extremely overpriced considering the mean portion of whiting and chips I was served on my ongoing seafood pilgrimage. The twee menu board presentation indicated it came with salad but it did not. When I asked, I was told there was an extra charge for salad. The coffee was nice - but the overall impression was irking.

Next, oh no. Our start in Streaky Bay is not great. The seaside motel I have booked is not only not on the seaside, it is at the back of the old pub. It is a very run-down old and cheap-looking motel, the sort of place one goes to commit suicide. This can't be right. I ask for a key to check out the room and retreat in horror. Renovated? Not. Cramped, dark, musty...

I simply cannot sabotage the experience of a nice place like Streaky Bay by staying in a dump. I have made a terrible mistake. The two Streaky Bay motels have almost identical names. This is the wrong one. I want the Streaky Bay Motel and Villas. I phone the rival motel which is lovely and am oh, so relieved to secure a villa for the night. Phew. In an attack of cowardice, I send B in to deal with cancellation. He gets very angry when they charge half the rate for the cancellation.

The Streaky Bay Motel and Villas is just divine. I am in love. It truly is the most aesthetic and civilised place with its groomed gravel and its giant cactus with a Buddha at its base. Various yuccas and cacti adorn the gardens along with Oriental sculptures. Neat brick paths guide one to the laundry, pool, and barbecue area which also features a pizza oven. And there is a trampoline and a solo tennis pole, plus soccer table and pinball machine in the pool area. Heaps to do for the young. The pool is superior, in its own elegant house, heated, with a shower at its side and a spa in the corner.

The villas are tasteful and well appointed - right down to the surprise gift of Drumstick icecreams awaiting in the freezer compartment. Our villa is two-bedroom and airy. B is happy it has a kitchen. We set the chilli plant in the sunshine on the porch and head out to shop for a spag dinner at the Foodland. Oh, and to stock up on Pimms.

Then we take long tourist trail coast drive to see magic beach - Back Beach. It is sublime. Then another long dirt road drive to find blowhole. It said 14 kms on sign...21 km down and we still had not found it. We turn back, sick of rattling along unsealed roads. B cooks his famous bolognaise using copious chillies from plant.

I have a heavenly swim all alone in the gorgeous indoor motel pool and bask awhile in the afternoon sunshine. Bliss.

The only downside to this lovely haven was the Internet. Yes, more Internet struggles. Nomadnet is the system they use here but somehow it is just not working. We call its help line. They couldn't be nicer and help by giving us a free 300mg. Thrilled. At last one can catch up. But when Betty Snowden's pix for my dad's biography have come thru twice, the limit is reached and one is cut off. Disappointed.

Make the most of things. Lovely dinner. We watch the Tracks movie and The Life Aquatic.

Fair Eyre

Day 6 - In which the January Eyre Peninsula road trip brings us to Elliston.

It was a wrench to leave Lincoln and that lovely hotel. We piled our road trip luggage on hotel trolly, astonished at how much we seemed to have.

Blossom, the pet chilli plant, capped it as a bit of luxurious overkill. But, the joy of a road trip is the the joy of almost unlimited luggage.

So, off we went early on Sunday morning, swinging by the famous oyster farming centre of Coffin Bay for a good look at it before humming north westwards to Sheringa to visit our Australia Day host, Kym Callaghan, his wife Robyn, and the boys Tyreece and Brody.

Sheringa is a flyspeck on the map but the Callaghans have a dear little colonial farm cottage there with garden and a few animals. We had a convivial cup of tea in the farm kitchen before following Kym up to Elliston, stopping along the way to gasp with awe at the magnificence of Lock Wells.

The council has created fantastic stairs and platforms for visitors to access the views, and even an eco lavatory. What a view. What huge, rugged cliffs. What wild and beautiful, vivid blue sea with frothy waves rolling forwards, line after mighty line. The glorious, clean air. The roar of surf. The ancient grandeur of it all. These are the mighty sea views people travel from afar to relish. We relished, too.

We skimmed on up to the sprawling coastal town of Elliston where Kim led us to the Council's Information Centre complete with impressive Op Shop in the big hall.

There were some terrific crafts on sale in the Information Centre shop. I bought a very quaint and characterful hand-made emu and some photo placemats. Kim presented me with some local information books and souvenirs.

I hunted for Ellen Liston books, since it seemed important that the town had been named after her - the only town I could find anywhere to be named after a woman writer. There was nothing more than reference to her in some history texts. I suggested her short stories should be reprinted and added to the tourist attractions.

Joy of joys, the Eyre Peninsular loo pride phenomenon rises to superstar quality in Elliston. The Information Centre was covered in impressive murals but, beside it, the public conveniences outshone it. Man and woman, huge portraits on the exterior. One could only smile and take photographs.

Kim escorted us on to the Elliston pub where there were wonderful locals waiting to meet us: Leon, Sonia, Cynthia, Mick, George. We had a drink, devoured lovely fresh grilled whiting and chips and had easy conversation with Leon et al. Leon and I used to work together on The Advertiser, so it was especially easy.

We discussed the Australia Day plans with other members of the council. The citizenship ceremony was to take place in Elliston while the Citizen of the Year ceremony was to take place in Lock, an hour away inland. There was some dissent about this division of ceremonies but in this vast Elliston and Lock District Council, it was traditional that the main event was in the town where the Citizen of the Year lived. This year it was Lock. It was all arranged that we would meet Kim at dawn and follow him to Lock where I would give my Australia Day speech.

We hopped off for an exploration of the area, driving around spectacular Waterloo Bay and along the local cliff roads to relish the stunning rocky vistas. So high. Such frothing sea below. Scary. Stunning.

Checking in to the Elliston Caravan Park, we found ourselves assigned the most delightful cabin where the little porch gave a magnificent view over the scrub to the sea. We walked the little sandy scrub path down to the beach to connect with the water of the darling little bay. We lolled awhile on the sand before returning to the cabin and making Pimms to drink on the porch before heading back to the pub for dinner.

Last time we were in a covered beer garden. This time we were in an austere, olde worlde country pub dining room. It was not too flash - but the fresh, local whiting which came out of the kitchen was stunning.

Salty sea Eyre

Day 4

Port Lincoln

- on our Eyre Peninsula road trip en route to Lock for Australia Day.

Surprisingly, one woke ravenous and we were glad of the breakfast buffet downstairs. There, the iPads worked better. B could download his NY Times; happy chappy. Oddly, we still could not load web pages and most of my mail was void of content.

We took a massive exploratory walk after breakfast - a couple of hours and, Bruce's iPhone revealed, 14,000 steps. Then, we hopped in the car and took a tour of the complex of marinas wherein tuna boats, prawn boats and lobster boats are moored en masse. What a spectacle. I love ships and boats and I was simply awe-struck by this concentration. Those massive working boats with their cranes for lifting nets, their massive industrial decks...the sheer size of them, one after another. A vast dormitory of off-duty working boats. Millions of dollars of fishing fleets, neatly nuzzled into the land . And on the tuna boat wharfs there are glossy quasi-mansions of modern vulgar architectural style. They look like nouvea-riche residences but they would seem to be fronts to vast sheds, presumably tuna processing. Who knew they needed such scale? Further on are ugly marina suburbs. Wealth trumps taste, it seems. And big is not beautiful. Oh well, the people are happy and the seafood is wonderful. Who am I to criticise?

On my mission to eat as much local seafood as I can on this trip, I chose the Peacock Thai and Chinese restaurant to see how they dealt with the king fish and prawns. They had a special page of their menu devoted to local seafood. So I had Massoman prawn curry for lunch. It was swoon material. Bruce had chicken. As we were leaving, the fish man was coming through the door, still in his overalls and white rubber boots, bringing the next load of kingfish and prawns. Fresh is the word.

Another Port Lincoln claim to fame is a winning race horse. Makybe Diva. She was owned by Tuna baron Tony Santic, named after three of the women who worked for him (taking the first to letters from their names - Maureen, Kylie and Belinda) and she won the Melbourne Cup thrice, only horse to do so. She won something like $14 million and is recognised in the international hall of horsey fame. So she has a life-sized statue right there on the foreshore of Port Lincoln.

The Tunarama festival was on this weekend and the fairgrounds and stalls were setting up in the seafront park. We ambled back to the hotel checking out the events and the shops in the main drag.

When Frank Martin rang to offer to take us out to see his oyster farm at Coffin Bay - 40 minutes by car and an hour or so on the water - we were too wearied by our exertions. He agreed to come to the hotel later in the day and we repaired to the pool deck to lie down and doze. I did a spot of swimming.

Frank came with his wife Kathy, a plastic bag full of unopened oysters and an old bone-handled knife with which to open them. I ordered us drinks from the bar and we settled at a high table out the front of the hotel while Frank opened one after another of his huge, plump oysters. I sucked them out of the shell with no more than a drip or two of lemon juice. They were the knee-tremblers of oyster perfection, my dream oysters, so unbearably fresh, so utterly plump, so sumptuously sensual... Frank, often likened to Paul Hogan, they say, was a talkative fellow with tales to tell. He regaled us. I said very little. I ate oysters. Bruce likes his oysters cooked so he did not have any. Kathy had a few. Frank had one or two. I had a lot. At least 15. The others were on their second drinks. I was still on my first. I was drunk on oysters. Frank and Kathy were exceptionally agreeable souls, close friends of my close friend, Barb. We assumed a certain familiarity and talked on for hours over a few more drinks - until we realised that we had made a table reservation at Di Giorno's, Lincoln's premiere Italian restaurant.

Here, I intended to eat a spaghetti marinara with Boston Bay mussels, prawns, king fish, cockles and squid. But the oysters had made something of a dent on my appetite and pasta was simply not a goer. I chose the simplest fish dish on the menu - king fish on thai salad vegetables with a touch of mirin. How superb. What a brave and wise chef to allow the fish to be itself. It was steamed, I think. Not too much. And just resting on the salad. It was clean and delicate and simply sublime.

Where Eyre We Roam

Day 2.

Soft rain and grey skies greeted us on Wednesday morning. The pet chilli plant was able to feel the elements for a while and I went for a swim in the lovely motel pool before we packed the car, went shopping for things we had forgotten to bring, such as straws for our Pimms, and then meandered out to the Arid Botanic Gardens for lunch and a walk amid the plants. We love this place.

Everyone does. It is special - spread out in the red sandy soil with the Flinders Ranges as a breathtaking landscape backdrop, blue against a bluer sky. We gazed upon this beauty and brunched at the Garden Cafe - upon an Aussie burger which was flavoured with bush herbs of some sort and utterly delectable, Bruce upon a toasted sandwich. We drank in the pristine desert air, examined the seemingly inexhaustible variety of eremophilas, pored over the industry of bull ants, and marvelled at the sweet scent of the witchetty acacia.

And then it was back on the road and south down Eyre Peninsular to the steel town of Whyalla. It was a mighty mecca in its day and it is still a really striking place, its red-roofed industry juxtaposed against a vivid azure sea.

The town has some lovely old architecture and it features Hummock Hill, a vertiginous winding trail up which one drives to lookouts which showcase the town in all directions. And there is the shallow bay - pale swirling greens and yellows against white sands and deep aquamarine seas. Cargo ships dotted the horizon. A busy marina lies in one foreground and industrial buildings in another.

The shallow bay lured us down for closer examination: those colours like nowhere and nothing else; a well-tended foreshore, perhaps too much so; a lot of cement paving and strange zig-zagging roadways onto the beach; playground and exercise machines; an elaborate sculpture of a diver beneath a school of fish; a white sandy strand with moderate seagrass; indifferent seagulls. We ordered a cup of tea at the cafe and sat in the brisk breeze enjoying this very different view before using spotless loos and and resuming our drive, noting as we went the darling old workers' cottages.

There followed a long, straightish drive down a beautiful road through undulating scrublands with the plan to hit Cowell with plenty of daylight.

My friend Janice Madden had organised accommodation for us. I thought it was going to be at the dear old Commercial hotel in Cowell's main street which I remembered fondly having stayed there years ago when visiting Cowell on a newspaper assignment. But, no, it turned out to be around the corner in a very modern two-storey holiday house which is an adjunct to the hotel.

Blossom, the pet chilli plant, took the sun on the bonnet of the car as we explored these swanky digs. There was a lovely little balcony where we could put her out in the fresh air and where, once unpacked and organised, we sat and relished a Pimms, looking out on a strange wasteland vista which seemed to separate the township of Cowell from a section of burbs.

Cowell's great claim to fame is as an oyster-producer. It used to be a major grain port but times have changed and now its exquisite, pristine waters are home to big, beautiful, delicate oysters - knee-tremblers, if you are an oyster-lover of my ilk.

We booked a table in the pub for dinner and went off for an exploratory walk down to the jetty, looking out to where the oyster beds sit in the clear sea, finding a lovely mangrove boardwalk. It was a pleasant walk which gave us a strong sense of the place.

The feeling was very laid-back and quiet and yet the caravan park was crowded and the town's other pub was rocking with merry tourist business as we walked past.

Funnily enough, our pub was very, very quiet indeed. It would seem to be out of fashion, patronised more by locals than tourists. We ate at a side table in the dining room, fascinated by the quaint old salad bar with its lace-motif plastic flaps to protect the food from the famous Aussie flies.

I had Cowell oysters, of course. A dozen. Presented in four different ways; specialty of the house. The food was not gastronomically remarkable. It was strictly country-pub. And off we trotted to our great big house to stretch out in the upstairs living room and watch the telly.

Road trip - where Eyre we care.

It's a road trip.

Destination: Elliston on Australia's Eyre Peninsula.

Day 1.

The red Rav hummed north up the Port Wakefield Road out of Adelaide. Dense traffic gave way to a steady flow of road trains and oversized trucks carrying mysterious construction objects. It had been a fast and frazzling time clearing the desk of last-minute bills and Women In Media communications to take the long-scheduled break away from the city. The thinning traffic heralded that relief of freedom - but the true spirit of getaway has to be expressed by a stop at a Port Wakefield Roadhouse.

There amid the lineup of truckstops was Pope's, as it always had been, a simple Aussie cafe: pies and pasties, fish and chips, sandwiches. We sat at outside tables under the expectant gaze of a solitary seagull. Bruce chomped a succulent chicken pie and I had a cheese, tomato and mustard sandwich toasted thin, crisp and gorgeous. Oh, and a nice cup of tea as the trucks, caravans, boats, horse trailers, and cars streamed steadily north.

Our destination was Port Augusta, a large town at the head of Spencer Gulf whence comes South Australia's coal-fired power. These days, the aesthetic of long strands of hilltop windmills symbolises the change in power generation.

From market gardens, past the spectacular pink lakes of Lochiel, the road narrows to a single lane interspersed with passing lanes. An hour or so north, the ridges of the Flinders Ranges rise to the right. Beautiful.

Entering Port Augusta, one crosses bridges, swampy and a bit sulphurous on one side, but blue and deep on the other. We are crossing the upper reaches of Spencer Gulf. We swiftly found our Majestic Oasis motel beside its grassy shores. The high security of the motel compound surprised us - high fences and high electric gates. But the staff was chirpy and welcoming. Palm trees and murals adorned the parking areas and the two-story accommodation units were named after Aboriginal Elders.

Our room 15, with a nice little outside deck, looked out onto the water and a bridge, the view interrupted by fences and palms. The pool was a couple of metres away. I put our travelling chilli plant outside for some fresh air and made us glorious happy-hour welcome-to-Port-Augusta Pimms cups.

My old colleague Paul Lloyd and wife Roseanne rocked up to take us out to dinner. "Mostly pub food in Port Augusta," said Paul - and then they drove us to the Standpipe Hotel wherein, belying everything they had said about P.A. cuisine, we were served a range of authentic curries of exquisite quality. And we drank a little wine and exchanged accounts of where life had taken us. Paul, an erudite and talented writer in his era as a journalist, now calls himself a hermit immersed in botany and music while his magistrate wife is engaged in Aboriginal life and welfare. They are both interesting and engaging individuals, and it was an enriching time.

Roseanne presented me with a tub of eremophila hand cream, a traditional Aboriginal unguent made by an Aboriginal friend of hers. It is pea-soup green and oddly pungent, almost repulsive at first, but once rubbed into the hands its aroma mellows out while the skin turns utterly silky. Roseanne told of how the unguent, believed to have healing properties, used always to be made with emu oil and hence could only be made by the women when the men had killed an emu. These days, the men no longer are hunters and processed emu oil is expensive, so the women pop into the supermarket and buy olive or canola oil as the cream's base. The loss of men's roles as hunters has been a root issue beneath the disintegration of Aboriginal society, Roseanne lamented.

Later Roseanne took us on an interesting night tour of the back blocks of P.A. along a dirt road which touches on the very top of Spencer Gulf meaning that one second one is on York Peninsula and then next, Eyre Peninsula. It was a moonless, black night and it was a surreal tour.