Eyre apparent

Day 5 - SAT 24 January

Port Lincoln

Next morning, Kim Callaghan came calling with his grandson, Tyreece. I made us cups of tea and entertained them in our heavenly hotel room with its glorious sea vista. Blossom, the travell

ing chilli plant, seemed to be thriving in the fresh air on the little balcony.

Kim is the Mayor of Elliston and my host for the Australia Day Awards. He's a small, talkative man whose life has undulated with interesting jobs and bad luck. Since his daughter committed suicide seven years ago, he and his wife, Robyn, have raised their grandsons on their little property at Sheringa.

Tyreece is a handsome boy, very bright and extroverted. He was quick to introduce himself as a star of Peter Goers Kids' Quiz. He's a coin collector. He has lots to say for himself, very engaging, but his grandfather keeps him in check for he, too, has lots to say to give this guest a rundown on the district and the Australia Day events.

It was a convivial and information-laden meeting. Instinctively, liked Kim and his grandson. Kim, a lifelong Leftie, is not the usual cut of a Mayor.

We didn't stop talking until we got to his car in the carpark. Still talking, it seemed, we waved goodbye, our plans settled for the next day. I had done quite a bit of research on Elliston and, fired up by the stories of the writer Ellen Liston, I was excited about going there but and also Lock which is an hour inland in that huge Council District and was where, Kim explained, the core of our Australia Day events were to take place.

Meanwhile, it was Tunarama time in Port Lincoln, a festival of the region's agri- and aqua- cultural economy - and it features a large pageant. The festival is quite a tourist drawcard. I'd always wanted to be there for one. I am one of those people who loves a pageant. I wasn't going to miss it.

We walked down the main drag and found a place to watch it all, chatting amiably to a slightly simple chap who said he was a professional photographer. I adored the parade. Many may call it hokey but I think it is a regional joy. Oh, for the old tractors, the many old tractors one after another, ancient puffing, rumbling things lovingly maintained by ruddy-faced farmers. And the faces of the farmers driving their machines. Something about the rugged dependence on the elements gives these men wise, weathered, and good-natured faces.

Of course there were tuna floats and boats, sea rescue, old cars, clubs, bands, marching girls, kids in costumes... It was a major parade as thousands of locals lined the street to see it and to wave to their friends and rellies. It went on and on and on.

Consequently, the town was swarming. The restaurants were packed and my new fav place, the Peacock, was closed. We repaired to the hotel and ordered room service. It took a while to come, but were comfortable in our lovely room, reading in the window corner with the rooftops and sea craft of Lincoln in expansive view - and the food was good.

Bruce had been fascinated by the Tunarama tuna toss competiton so we headed back to the shorefront park to find a place to watch it.

En route we came upon a fabulous art exhibition in a huge old hall, maybe the town's theatre. There was some wonderful work and, with Bruce hanging around outside, I revelled in it.

And on to the Tuna Toss. They used to use frozen tuna but now it is a big fake tuna. It was amusing with the various tourists and locals having a go to do a whizzy hammer throw technique tuna throw. Some of them almost went with the tuna. Bruce was not much impressed. He reckons he could ace it. He wants to come back and show 'em after a bit of practice. The general hubbub in the town was pleasant and we ambled about. I actually did some rather good bargain shopping. We managed to get a dinner at the Peacock that night. It was not as impressive as the first experience. So it goes.

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.

Fresh Eyre everywhere

Day 3

As well as the potplant, Blossom, for a constant supply of very hot chillies, we carried an assortment of provisions, as one can when on a road trip. Our big wicker basket was full of Pimm s-making ingredients as well as coffee bags, bread, eggs and cheese and tomatoes

Hence, while I packed and laid out clothes for the day, Bruce leapt into action in the lovely modern Cowell kitchen to make us a stunning Spanish-style omelette before we hit the road.

And off we went, skimming south in the Toyota Rav my grandies like to call "The Red Beeper" because of her various beeping reprimands. This was her first road trip and she seemed to be enjoying it as much as we were.

There is nothing like that sensation of sublime freedom and curiosity one realises on the long, open road with huge skies and ever-changing landscapes and vegetation.

First stop, Arno Bay. It's a humble sort of old fishing town which has seen busier times. These days its glorious beaches attract holidaymakers and it has a splendid beachside caravan park on one side of its coastal core and a row of wonderful old shacks on the other. In the middle is a large turning and parking circle and an expanse of lawn on which a loo block takes proud prominence. I used that loo block and am here to report that it was the cleanest and best-kept public loo I have ever encountered. Its stainless steel sinks were spotless and its terrazzo floor shone with polish.

This was something I was to observe throughout this Australia Day pilgrimage. One country town after another had proudly-maintained and inviting public conveniences. Not only but also, a lot of them have been turned into works of art, covered in lavish murals. It is quite a phenomenon - and this was my first experience. I was so impressed that I took a photo. I took a photo of the loo floor.

We parked the Rav on the foreshore, the chilli plant on its bonnet to get the sun, while we wandered onto the beach for a while. There was a slow feeling. A couple of women sat under a pergola talking. They did not so much as turn to note our coming or going. We read the huge sign, topped by a sculptured king fish. It described today's Arno Bay fishing industry - a fabulous fish farm breeding kingfish and mulloway. Sustainable seafood. Yes. A couple of kilometres out to sea one could just spot signs of its location.

A pleasant retired couple came out of their shack when we went to read the sign on the long strip of green which stood between the shacks and the sand. "Used to be a running track," said the woman. "They had races here. And the loo block stands where the old captain's house used to be. We were sad when they bulldozed the captain's house. Sad to see history going. The older you get, the more you value history." The woman explained that she had a local background but that her husband was a Queenslander. They had bought the shack 40 years ago for $3000 and, had holidayed there with their 7 children. It had been built for the second captain, so they had never changed its appearance. But now retired and living there, they were working on doing up the interior while loving the life. How do they fill their days in this tiny settlement? "Don't know. They seem to go so fast." They invited us in for a cuppa - but we declined. More miles to cover.

The road south is a classic ribbon, made rather pleasant by surfaces striped in pink and charcoal hues. A pretty ribbon. And it just goes and goes straight ahead, an undulating single lane traversing bush and mallee, swamp and farmland. Now and then there's a bend. Then another straight ribbon, as far as the eye can see. These are dangerous roads. People tend to put the foot down. Others pop the car onto cruise control at the 110k limit and steer. A drowsy moment or an in-car distraction, and the car can drift into the path of oncoming traffic. Three people, a Port Augusta father and his twin sons, were killed by that very thing - drifting into the path of an oncoming road train- just an hour or so after we left Whyalla.

Next stop, Tumby Bay.

Everyone loves Tumby Bay. We did, too. Glorious sweeping white beach, wonderful for walking and good for swimming.

A massive sheltered bay. Calm waters. A pontoon close to shore near the populated area was rocking with a happy holidaying family. Someone was cruising about in a kayak. A pelican watched from a lamp post. It was not busy.

We settled in the lovely little Ritz Cafe on the foreshore for lunch. I had grilled yellowfin whiting, a local fish. I'd not had it before. It was fresh and good. Not in the class of King George Whiting but good by its absolute freshness. Bruce had a toasted sandwich. He is not on a mission to eat local seafood for every meal. I am.

We stream down more ribbons of road. Cleared land becomes more common beyond verges of scrub. And then, there is our day's destination: vivid aquamarine sea, islands, signs of occupation, and suddenly here we are in Port Lincoln. The Port Lincoln Hotel was not hard to find. It is the biggest building in the town, if you don't count the massive white Viterra grain silos which feed wheat out along the jetty onto waiting cargo boats. The Port Lincoln Hotel is the top place in town, owned by one of Lincoln's tuna barons, a man named Sarin. The hotel restaurant is named after him.

The hotel licensees are Peter Hurley and a former footballer called Mark Riccuittio. They are not just hotel folk but Crows people. That is a South Australian football team. "The" football team, if you ask me. There is a fair bit of acrimonious competition between the Crows and a team called Port Power. And that explains the negative reports I had heard about the hotel. it is a gorgeous, classy place. We were in a corner room on the 4th floor with a corner balcony giving us a dream view of Boston Bay in two directions - one towards the town and the other along the coast. The chilli plant took the best real estate, right in the corner of the little balcony. Fresh air, sunshine, fresh water and a view. What more can a chilli plant want?

The downside of this marvellous hotel and this heavenly room was the internet service. We could not get online. The free wireless simply did not download anything. We tried and tried, called the desk and soon became the mission of a staffer called Sarah. A bright girl from Perth, she has become the hotel tech trouble-shooter and our iPads not to mention my MacBook Air were weird casualties of a not-great wireless facility. Dear girl worked like fury on every logical solution. She even brought us a bottle of complimentary red wine for our disappointments - but could not get us working properly. I managed to download some email - but only by placing my iPad on the floor at a weird angle leaning into the door to the adjoining suite. Even then, the email came sans content. I knew who it was from but not what they were saying.

I had some pressure things on the go from Women In Media. I attempted, laboriously, to iPad out some responses and communications, but next morning I discovered that they had not managed to send and were sitting in limbo. Unaware of this, thinking I had at least kept the communications show on the road, I hit the lovely swimming pool. Ooh, cold. But, despite some pretty boorish teenage girls hogging the water, I had a divine swim, pleasantly interrupted by the arrival of an African American fellow who had flown from Sydney especially to swim with the sharks in Port Lincoln. It's a big attraction here. He was excited but very nervous about this booking first thing in the morning. He was glad to find American conversation but not perhaps as glad as Bruce whose devotion to the New England Patriots along with the hours dedicated to watching their victories on American football telecasts have been frustrated by the absolute lack of people with whom to share the love of the games and the results therein. At last he had someone who knew what he was on about.

For me, there was the sheer bliss of an outdoor pool with a view of the sea and boats - not just the cargo boats loading at the grain dock, but, look, the One and All under full sail! A taste of another era on the sea. One can rest one's elbows on the side of the pool and gaze through the glass windbreaks at this vista. Now there is a tug boat leading a cargo boat back to the ocean. This has to be one of the most interestingly-located swimming pools in the country. Pity it has such awkward sunbeds. We lolled for a while, but the mattresses on the sunbeds just slither about. Oh well. I loved it anyway.

Bruce and I dined in the Sarin restaurant in the hotel. I had oysters, of course. Half a dozen natural and half in a quandong/ tomato treatment.

They were small oysters. It is out of season. Two were a bit rank and I sidelined them. The others were good, but not knee-trembler good. The chef sent out two more, learning I had rejected two. They were better than all the others. Thereafter I had bluefin tuna, another local specialty. It was sesame-coated, seared and and presented in a delicate Asian curry sauce on top of a nori roll and surrounded by tofu and lightly cooked Asian vegetables. It was stunning. Bruce had pork.

I fell into a food coma the moment I hit the bed. Dinner had been just a bit rich. It was, consequently, a rather broken night.