Living Better Longer

After driving all day, and then setting up camp somewhere, it’s actually very easy to just sit.  This nomadic life can be quite tiring and so a bit of a sit is a good thing.  The problem for some is that this is where they stop.  That is with the exception of when they move their chairs and gather around in a big circle, sit some more and eat and drink.  This is called happy hour, or hours in most cases, and the caravan community are specialists at it.  On non driving days, they really get resting down to a fine art and sit some more.  The whole day is a procession of sitting, eating and drinking.

I remember one fellow complaining to me that he had to walk 200 metres when they stopped sitting for a bit and went to visit a National Park.  He blamed the National Park officer who suggested that this horrendous life threatening undertaking might be a nice thing to do.  The whining continued all evening to anyone who would listen.  He then proceeded to hop in his car and drive the fifty metres up to the park office to pay for another night, so he could sit some more the following day.

As opposed to this, Karyn and I try to keep as active as possible when we travel.  It is sometimes difficult to achieve as sitting can become contagious.  To assist, we take along our toys. –  The push bikes for exploring, the kayaks for venturing down the rivers and coastal waters, and the yoga mats and rubber tubes for stretching and strength work.  I even try to go for a run when time permits.  We are a bit of an oddity.  This trip we have been joined by our mate Ridgy, and so far the bikes have been given a good workout with a decent ride most days.  However, the kayaks are a different story, and apart from a few outings, have remained a little neglected on the roof of our car.  Getting access to suitable water to paddle in has been the problem.

To rectify this, we decided to head for the Eildon Dam and stay in a caravan Park on the pondage.  We assumed that we would be camped by the water and have the pondage and the whole dam to play in.  It just so happens that the three days we picked coincided with a long weekend.  The whole of the Victorian speed boat community had descended on Eildon Dam and most were staying in OUR caravan park.  There is just something about speed boat people that is different.

After checking in, Karyn drove the car and van through the boom gated entrance and waited for me to explain to our friends, Peter and Loris where our camp sites were.  I had the only map.  One of our speed boating friends in a very hot low slung car towing a very hot low slung phallic symbol, didn’t wish to wait.  So he keyed in the boom gate code and the boom gate went up.  He couldn’t move, so he turned his attention to me and started to sling abuse. I tried to explain, but soon recognised the futility of the discussion and headed for the safety of our car and we went on our way.  He followed, but didn’t quite make it.  The boom gate came down on his car.  More abuse flowed and this time, his children joined in.  How nice.

We were not allowed to paddle in the pondage. – Too cold, too shallow and a $3000 fine.  So we headed for the boat ramp on the dam to try our luck. –  Too crowded with speed boats, jet skis, trailers, cars and boat people all in a hurry to grab their piece of water.  No room for a few kayaks, so we quit.  Very early the next morning, before our fast friends were awake, we managed to launch without interference, have a paddle for an hour or so, and return safely before the days churning began.

When the weekend was over, they vanished as quickly as they had arrived.   Peace at last.  Though, one group left a parting message.  They decided to empty a whole pile of glass beer bottles down into the dump point.  Now, for the uninitiated, the dump point is the location where the contents of caravan toilets are deposited and flushed away.  It is like a giant toilet bowl with a lid.  It is not a rubbish bin and it is very clearly marked.  The park manager said that he would like to give them the benefit of the doubt and they just made an honest mistake.  That is why he is a caravan park manager and I am not.  I suspect however that it may have been our not so friendly rev head who wanted to leave an impression similar to the one that the boom gate left on his pride and joy.

Eventually it was time for us to move as well.  It was also time to head north and commence our homeward journey.  We travelled through a very dry part of the Murray/Darling River basin and were soon confronted with more opposing forces.  At times it seems that the debate between the irrigators, conservationists, and governments at all levels, in relation to the future of the Murray River is as intractable as the Israel/Palestine debacle.  I don’t have the answer, but what was puzzling was the sight of massive dairy farms only surviving through irrigation, when there are large parts of the country, with lots of rain, lovely pastures and yet pock marked with abandoned family run dairy farms.  Something is definitely wrong.

Further on in our journey we entered the most beautiful Bylong Valley, just South West of Newcastle. – Lots of lovely farms, abundant pastures and contented animals and vineyards.  And then there were the signs on the side of the road.

FOOD BOWL, NOT COAL HOLE

Opposing forces were at it again.  Coal seam gas and coal mining companies were dipping their toes, or in this case, their drilling equipment and excavators into the lovely Bylong Valley.  The Everest size ugliness of the existing remnants of a lifetime of coal extraction was gobsmacking.  It went on for miles.  And now they want to keep doing it in the Bylong Valley.  There is an inquiry going on in NSW currently.  It is about the possible shortcomings in the process of granting mining licences to big business and the back pocket take on the side.  Numerous former and current State Labor politicians have been caught with their pants down and the Libs are having a party.

Thankfully we kept moving and have found ourselves camped beside a river in the pretty little community of Gloucester on the edge of the World Heritage listed Barrington Tops National Park.  It is a wonderful little town surrounded by dairy farms and locally owned businesses.  IGA and Foodworks are the small supermarkets that provide the community with their groceries.  As we cycled through this idyllic location we came across a building site on the edge of town.  It was massive.  Karyn said it looked a bit like Woolworths.  And it was.

Enough said.

Well actually there is just one more thing.  When we visited the Barrington Tops National Park, we noticed signs about the commencement of hunting in the park.  The NSW’S government, in its wisdom, has bowed to the gun lobby and will be allowing the shooters to run rampant in their National Parks.  Not everyone is happy.  As a precaution however, they have now advised that their own employees, the National Parks Officers, should wear bright coloured clothing so that they can be seen better.

Now isn’t that nice and considerate?

Bill Bryson is one of my favourite authors.  I think I have read just about everything he has written.  That is of course with the exception of “The Mother Tongue”.  At the time, it was just a little too cerebral for my energy level.  However, the book on his journey through Australia is one of my absolute favourites.  The only thing that gave me the erks a bit was that he stopped at Surfers Paradise and never got to Brisbane.  He turned around and went back to Sydney.  Fancy stopping at the worst place in Australia and missing out on one of the best!  At the time I remember firing off a quick email to his publisher to express my concern at the oversight.  For some reason I never received a response.

When he was in Victoria, he visited a place called King Valley and waxed lyrical about everything imaginable.  To him, it was one of the highlights of his visit.  Then again, he hadn’t been to Brisbane, and also missed the Sunshine Coast and its wonderful hinterland.  But his eloquent and always amusing description of the King Valley was enough to make me want to have a visit and check it out.

We left Mount Beauty, Falls Creek and the Bogong High Plains after a wonderful stay in possibly the most beautiful caravan park in the country.  We escaped just in time to miss out on the Three Peaks Climb – known to be the most challenging road bike ride in Australia. Thirteen Hours, three peaks and 236 Kilometres.  There were lots of riders out in what appears to be a very bike friendly part of the country.  “Share the Road” signs everywhere and truck drivers waving with their whole hand rather than just the one finger we usually get in Queensland.  We even had a truck driver stop one morning to check whether we would be riding on that road for long.  He said that he and another truck would be using the road all day and he just wanted to warn us.  How good is that?  We did climb the first six K’s out of Mount Beauty on the road up to Falls Creek, just as a taste of the big event to come – only another 30 to get to the top, two more peaks and 230k for the whole journey – easy?

On our arrival in King Valley, I was quite surprised.  For some reason, I expected it to be lush and green.  It wasn’t.  It was as dry as an old boot.  This part of the country has its wet season in winter, and King Valley was on the end of a five month long drought.  Just like much of the rest of Victoria.  The resultant fires that have ravaged large sections of the State have so far been avoided in King Valley.  That is of course with the exception of the Whitfield General Store.  Compared with the others, It was only a small fire, but no less catastrophic.

Mrs Barb Satori, a long term and very special resident of the King Valley, was one of the three Nonnas who inspired thousands each year at the Melbourne food festival.  She purchased the Whitfield General Store and had plans to make it into a centre for regional produce.    Apart from food, doing things for others was her speciality.  It had only opened for five days before it burnt to the ground early one morning, and just a few weeks before our visit.  The remains were still roped off when we drove into town.  Police say that it looked like an electrical fault.  Noona Satori did not survive the blaze.

The whole of King Valley felt like it had been through an inferno.  Over fifteen hundred people attended the funeral.  Such was the loss and the influence of this one woman.  King Valley will take a long time to recover and it will take more than a few showers of rain to do it.

In the process of writing this piece, I happened to watch a very short lecture by Sam Harris, through the wonders of the internet.  It was about death and the importance of living in the present moment.  Sam says that the past is but a memory, and the future just a thought.  This can all be changed in a second.  A phone call from the doctor, or, in the case of King Valley, a spark in an electrical fitting, can alter everything.  The only thing that matters then in life is survival.  As always, Sam Harris is spot on.

And so, even in the darkest of circumstances, life continues in the present in King Valley.  We tried to make the most of our time there and sampled much of the local produce that had survived the drought.  On the morning of our arrival, four calves were born in the dust on the dairy farm next to our caravan park.   We saw two of them just pop out as we drove by.  For city slickers, it was quite an event.  The farmer never missed a beat and just shrugged his shoulders as he laid out more feed on the parched ground.

And of course there were the FLIES.  They were everywhere, but seemed to take special interest in my mouth – quite possibly adding additional protein to the diet during meal time.  I actually came to the conclusion that I would very quickly give away my most deepest darkest secret if placed in a room full of them for too long.

As it turns out, King Valley was not at its best.  Though, Bill Bryson is not one to be dismissed, except of course in relation to his non visit to Brisbane.  So maybe it is worth another crack sometime down the track.  King Valley will need it.

For those of you who have read my previous post about dogs, you will realise that Karyn and I are in Canberra, the Nation’s capital.  And a wonderful place it is.  We are of course here at the end of summer and the leaves on some of the trees are already turning their toes up.  It is undoubtedly a different story in winter.

We visited most of the points of interest found in capital cities of the world, such as the War Memorial, Parliament House, National Art Galley and Science Centre.  All excellent and mostly free except for the very special Toulouse Lautrec exhibition at the gallery.  My art education has received a much needed boost.

On our way into the city centre the other day, we passed the famous Duntroon Royal Military College (RMC).  This is the location where future army officers are trained in the ways of war.  It took me back to my days at the Officer Training Unit at Scheyville, just outside Sydney, when I was undertaking National Service, – a program introduced to provide cannon fodder for the Vietnam War.  The Army needed officer cannon fodder as well and I was fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate to be selected to undertake six months of hell.

When Whitlam was elected, he pulled out the troops from Vietnam and cancelled National Service.  Three cheers all round.  Scheyville was closed and all of the important bits of stuff were packed up and sent off to Duntroon for storage and possibly display in the museum.  I am also led to believe that the Battalion colours and banner were part of this memorabilia.  It just so happens that these particular items were presented to the Battalion by the Governor General on the occasion of my graduation as an officer.  It also just so happens, that I was the parade commander.  In the scheme of things, none of this is a big deal, but at the time it was quite significant.

Now, I have had no real interest in anything to do with the military since completing my two year stint at the end of 1968.  Reunions involving marching down the streets and church parades all leave me a bit cold.  And what is it with the church and the military?  From a philosophical point of view, I would think that they should be poles apart.  Instead, they are joined at the hip.  Go figure.  Sorry, I digress.

However, as we passed the gates of Duntroon, for some reason, I wondered if it may be worth a visit, just to check out the old Battalion Colours.  Thinking that access to this hallowed ground would be difficult, I assumed that a phone call would be a great place to start.  The number for RMC provided by the wonders of the Internet, put me through to the golf course.  So I searched again. Each time I tried a different number it only lead me back to the golf.  I thought that maybe that’s all they do these days in preparation for fighting in Afghanistan.  Lots of sand bunkers there.

Eventually I was put through to the Department of Defence switch board.  Following intense interrogation as to my business, I was transferred to another number.  The gentleman who answered the phone was out walking his dog.  He said the he only worked at RMC a few days of the week and this was not one of them.  He did however suggest that I just drive through the main gates, check into the guard house and they will direct me to the museum.

My memory of military guard houses is that they are very formal locations with lots of spit and polish and checking in procedures.  They can also be quite frightening to the uninitiated.  The first time I went through the gates of my new posting at the Pacific Island Regiment in New Guinea, a soldier jumped out in front of the car with rifle and bayonet attached and shouted “HALT,WHO GOES THERE”.  I remember thinking at the time that if I wasn’t careful, I would very quickly change the colours of my undies.

On this occasion, I simply drove through the very impressive gates of Duntroon and just kept on going.  But where is the guard house?  I couldn’t find it.  There was a sign that said that the grounds were patrolled by armed guards, but that was all.  I stopped a couple of young cadets and they seemed a little puzzled and vaguely pointed in the direction further up the road.  I passed the RMC headquarters and thought I might ask there.  The young army corporal who greeted me at the door said it was up around the corner.  I still couldn’t find it.  I stopped an army officer and he directed me back along the road and up a side street to a few shops.  I parked the car and began my search.  Eventually I found a room that had a sign -DUTY OFFICE on the door.  This must be it.  I entered the room and after a bit of a wait was greeted by the only person in residence.

At this point, I must digress again and take you back to my visit to the National Art Gallery.  I hope you will understand the diversion shortly.  One of the exhibits at the gallery that took my attention was a large painting with the words AUSTRALIAN RACISM printed across the canvas.  Underneath these words , was a whole lot of smaller printing that filled the total picture.  Each sentence began with the words “I’m not a racist, but”.  In each case this was followed by a series of very common statements often used to describe people of other nationalities.  It was quite disturbing, but a very accurate description of racism in this country.  Now it’s back to the guard house.

The person who greeted me was not in the military.  He wore the uniform of ACME Security Company, and while I am not a racist, but… it just so happened that the gentleman concerned looked like he started life in Pakistan, or somewhere very close by, like maybe Afghanistan?  Now of course, to even make a statement of this sort is possibly racist, and I haven’t even hinted at terrorism, but I must admit, I was rather taken by surprise.

He tried to be very helpful, and even though he had worked at RMC for six months, he did not have a clue where the museum was.  We searched on the map and could not find it.  Then his boss arrived.  I thought he may be from the military.  No, he was also from ACME security and quite possibly my new found friend’s brother or cousin.  He could not help either.

Now, I am not usually a quitter, but at this point, I simply gave up, hopped in the car and drove out once again through the Duntroon gates.  As I drove, I wondered if the ACME security company also provided the guards who picked up their weapons at night and patrolled the grounds.

Things have changed since I was in the military.  And while I have trouble with the concept of outsourcing, at least one positive is that individuals are not judged by the colour of their skin, or race, in order to take up positions of responsibility.

P.S.  A few days after we left Canberra, I received a call from an officer from RMC.  He was responding to a message I had left during my initial search.  He said that the museum was closed due to the resignation of the person responsible.  The Scheyville memorabilia was now displayed in the cadet’s mess and could be accessed next time we were in Canberra, by going through the Adjutant’s office.  All is not lost.

I like dogs.  They are just so giving and forgiving and wonderful companions.  Hospitals, aged care facilities and even prisons use them as part of their treatment and rehabilitation programs.  It seems that no matter how much a dog may be neglected or taken for granted, they will always be there with an expectant look and a wag of the tail.

There is an old story that goes something like this:

Question – How do you know whether your dog or your partner loves you the most?

Answer – Put them both in the boot of your car and close the lid.  Open it twenty minutes later and see which one is still happy to see you.

Don’t try this at home.

Karyn and I have both owned dogs, though we don’t have one at the moment.  Karyn would REALLY, REALLY just love to have “A LITTLE PUPPY”, but it is not practical due to our rather roving lifestyle.

In our trip so far, we have seen lots of dogs.  Winery dogs that sit at the entrance of the tasting rooms and greet the thirsty customers, (there is even a whole book published on these) the house dogs doing their territorial duty that bark at us, thankfully behind the confines of the fence, and the farm dogs that sit on the back of utes and round up sheep and cattle on command.

And then there are the dogs that are not really dogs at all.  Well they are dogs, but are not really allowed to behave like dogs.  We first met them at the Kangaroo Valley Show.  By the way, Kangaroo Valley is possibly one of the most beautiful locations in Australia.  We free camped beside the Kangaroo River for the few days that the annual show was in town.  Just an added bonus.  Now when I have seen dogs at agricultural shows before, they have always been working dogs that that get timed on how quickly they can round up a few sheep and put them in a small holding pen.  The whole experience is a pure delight and a wonderful Aussie tradition.

On this occasion, I accidently came across the “SHOW” dog section.  Here dogs are not judged on what they can do, but on what they look like.  The first one I observed was this enormous white poodle.  Well I think it was a poodle.  Most of its hair had been shaved off to reveal this very ugly pink and grey skin.  The remaining tufts of hair were being shampooed, blown dry and then preened by the owners.  They looked a little like poodles themselves and the whole event was taking place in an open tent that could very easily pass for a mobile hairdressing salon.  I started to feel quite ill and at one stage thought I might throw up.

Thankfully, Karyn rescued me and managed to hold me upright while we completed the rest of the tour.  We did the rounds of all the tents and the same scene was repeated each time. – Preening owners, prancing and pruning around perfectly manicured stationary objects that only on close inspection revealed dog like features.  In one such tent, one owner had her other baby (in this case, a human one) tucked away in a corner looking quite neglected.  And it was.

And then came the judging.  Each owner would present their prized possession to the very serious grey coated supreme pontiff for a bit of a feel job and then a prance around the ring.  I discovered that these dogs could actually move.  But it was the movement of the owners that had me intrigued.  The poodle owner had this stiff legged stride especially for the occasion and constantly jerked on the lead to keep the dog’s head high, just in case it remembered that it was actually a dog and wanted to sniff the ground and check out the scent of its companion non dogs.

All the contenders were then lined up for a final inspection and one owner had this little trick of holding a special treat in such a position that her dog’s head was constantly in the correct position.  Finally the mounting tension was released when the Pontiff waved her hand in the direction of the patchy poodle.  The supreme non dog of the Kangaroo Valley annual show was announced.  The pampered poodle owner pranced across to the pontiff to receive her prize and all the other owners hung their heads and developed a collective hang dog look.

I thought that we should call in the RSPCA and have all the owners and the pontiff all charged with cruelty to animals.

But it didn’t stop there.  We were heading for the National capital to check out the sites and catch up with friends.  Ian and Jill are travelling in their van with their dog, Chandon.  Now Chandon is a real dog and a beauty – An Australian cattle dog the colour of champagne, so hence the name.  They had booked into a caravan park that allows animals, so we did the same.  Our other friends, Wayne and Liz have been travelling in their car and were booked into the local motel.  It was like old home week with lots of hugs when we all arrived together.  We were looking forward to a wonderful week.

But, it just so happens that our arrival in Canberra coincided with the annual agricultural show.  This show also has non dog judging, and the non dog owners who travel in from all over, have to find a place to stay.  By now, those of you who are quick off the mark will have picked where all of this is going, but for the slow ones, no names mentioned, I will spell it out.

A very small campervan arrived and parked at the back of our annex.  It was very close.  The owner disembarked and proceeded to open the side sliding door.  Then she removed the fence, yes a fence, and proceeded to erect it in the form of a circle, with the only opening being the door of the van.  Then she pulled out a table with numerous pillows and a full sized free standing hair dryer thing that you see in the hair dressers shops.  I was transfixed in anticipation.  And then came the hose and all the brushes and combs.  It was only a small van.  And then came the dogs.  One, Two, Three, and finally, Four.  THERE WERE FOUR DOGS IN THIS TINY VAN.

She then proceeded to wash, dry, prune and prod each dog in turn.  She had actually taught them to put their head on a pillow and hold it perfectly still, while she carried out the finer points of the pampering process.  She told me that she was here for the show.  I would never have guessed.  We closed the back of our annex and opened the other end.

The following morning she packed everything up with the promise to return in the evening.  I could hardly wait.  For some reason however, she never arrived.  Possibly eliminated in the first round, dropped her bundle and sulked off home.  But never fear, she was just replaced by others.  We were completely surrounded and every van seemed to have multiple non dogs – All here for the show.  In one group, the all owners had uniforms.  On the back of their shirt were the words – SYDNEY PSYCHOS.  I thought, how appropriate.  I wonder who thought that one up?   Some of their non dogs had also picked up on the terminology as well, and were behaving in a manner in keeping with their name.  We closed the front entrance of our annex and bunkered down.

The show ends today and hopefully we will be left in peace.  Thankfully, Chandon will still be around, to remind us of what real dogs are like.