PATHWAYS AND DOORWAYS

Absorbed into the trail, my footsteps join the collage of those who have walked before me, documenting my transient participation in deep time. My personage is enshrouded by a mystery of greatness. My thoughts centre around a vista of heroes, whose legend clings to trees, drips down rock faces, clacks on cobblestones, flows richly in rivers, and breaths in the valley-draping mist.

Their stories shape direction, blaze trails and create pathways for precedent. Horizons scaped with valour, inspiration, discovery, innovation, perspicacity. They were the vanguards of the unconventional and sentries of the atypical. Excavators of enchantment, artisans of the authentic and primary producers of new paradigms.

Undaunted by the undiscovered, untested or unaccepted. Unfeigned obsession with, submission to, immersion in, the possibility, plausibility, probability. A steady parlance with cynics, supporters, sweethearts and slanderers. The giant shadows of Goethe, Wagner, Jean-Paul Richter, von Humboldt and Weller infuse the spirit of bravery, creativity, discovery, ingenuity and ambition infectiously in every step.

A step in a quest of discovery, of writing, questioning and philosophising. “We all walk in mysteries. We are surrounded by an atmosphere about which we still know nothing at all.”Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 –1832). Truth ricocheting off Jurassic cave walls and scaling ancient colossal stones.

A romantic path of poetry; bold and fantastic. “Like a morning dream, life becomes brighter the longer we live and the reason for everything appears clearer. What has puzzled us before seems less mysterious, and the crooked paths look straighter.” Jean -Paul (1763 –1825). Revelations in Fichtel Mountain thickets. Enigmatic words and poetic devices decorate spruce trees and blossom in the flowers of the Siebenstern.

A trail blazed with innovation and invention, of forges, hammers, iron and mines. Scattered through the ‘Wellertal’, carved by the captain of industry, chiselled through the heights of honour and nobility, slashed through dishonesty and disgrace. Progress and greed flowing cold in the Eger river, escorting the legend of Johann Christoph Weller (1647-1721), into mills and dams, on towards the heights of hydropower and homes. A stream of unceasing enterprise and energy.

A promenade of eccentricity and egotism. Compositions of exile and escape. Delusional boardwalks paved with grandeur. The Festspielhaus of Richard Wagner’s (1813-1859) fame and broken fortune. The loyalty and love of Wagnerians. Performances of passion, patriotism, scandal and controversy. A dramatic synthesis of poetry, unparagoned operas, the aftermath of Adolf, and manuscripts of anti-Semitic sentiments paper the walls of Wahnfried.

A passage of exploration through the world of polymaths, geography, naturalism and geology, uncovers the covered, names the unnamed, traverses the untraversed and challenges the unchallenged. The personal conviction, penchant for collecting and unceasing intellectual contribution of Alexander von Humboldt (1769-1859) to the popularization of science, silently sit in the goldfields of Goldkronach, draw us to the magnetic rocks of Haidberg, and after 250 years, continues to unearth deep seated notions of discovery and wonder.

Embedded in my footprints, imbued in every step, settles a participation in the past, encounters with enterprise, a brush with the bold and brave, an adventure with awakening, a connection with conviction, acquaintance with the authentic and an abiding humility, awe and appreciation of my privilege in this partnership. Truly in this forest, “Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.”  John Muir

 

IN A COFFEE CUP

Moving up to the Drive Thru window, I order my regular soy cappuccino.
“Would you like a Wallfahrt with that? Some Bohemia? A Warsaw Pact? Honey? Bread? Or perhaps Red or White Main Water?”
With no knowledge of the ingredients, I consider the options.

A pinch of Bohemia requires a crash course in Kingdoms, Reichs and Republics, of noblemen and Nazis. Are the Germans, Hungarians and Austrians in or out? Can the Sudeten and Egerland Germans stay or must they go? We’d have to draw some lines around Bavaria, Saxony, Silesia, Austria and Moravia, moving them multiple times over. Ultimately after an age, with a final declaration of surrender to the Czechs and Slovaks everyone gets to go home.

The option of a Wallfahrt comes with a list of considerations and a demand for commitment to a pilgrimage not always comfortable. Purpose, places and paths form the framework for determination. Bombastic baroque delights, jewelled skeletons and effervescent angels await via Volkenroda to Waldsassen. The twelve stations of the cross, quiet Capellas with warm glowing candles along the St James Way, offer up space for contemplation and reflection. Protestant, Catholic, Ecumenical or Unitarian, a shedding of self, a discovery of God, grace and greatness. An ultimate surrender to the Sovereign and realignment with reality.

For a piece of Warsaw Pact, we bite down into Cold War ideology rather than arm up with infantry and ammunition. A ‘red collective counter weight’ for NATO is formed, to determine who’s in the Eastern ‘socialist sandwich’. From the Fichtelgebirge mountains of Schneeberg and Grosser Kornburg, German surveillance bust open secrets, uncover cohorts and collusion, stabilising security in the Western Alliance. Battle lines are drawn as in a game of Risk, with readjustments and the 1989 reunification the final roll of the dice.

To choose ‘Bread’ in this context of offerings requires explanation and is unquestionably unappetizing. Through the Fichtelgebirge, Steinwald and Fränkische Schweiz, along the Fränkische Gebirgsweg, the dark towering, fairy-tale provoking Spruce is the most stumbled over, slipped on and stood under tree. Earning the moniker from its economic metrics; the fast growing, quick harvesting, profit yielding, ‘bread tree’ generated funds for the payment of repartitions, delivered sustainably to the rebuilding efforts of WWII and continues to dominate forestry practice. With the realisation that “Man cannot live by bread alone”, a transition away from monoculture to a ‘multi-culture’ is outlined in the German Forest Act and commemorated on a 50-cent piece. Ultimately confirming that amongst the diversified ecosystem objectives and benefits, forestry is still all about ‘coin’.

A spoonful of honey requires a significant quantity of bees. Amongst the bounteous corn and sugar beet plots, (successfully used for biogas/ biomethane production), and beneath colossal wind turbines, the “Insect Protection Action Programme” is hiding. Along the edges of ploughed fields, in small patches of otherwise farmed and fertilised soil, a government subsidised glad array of corn flowers, yarrow, poppies, sunflowers, daisies, clover, dandelion, and other bright coloured flowers stand boldly beguiling bees. There’s a magic in embracing the classic and ancient, an exit from agricultural hubris to botanical mélange. The benefits of biodiversity if we just, ‘let it bee’.

To wash this all down, there’s the option of Red or White Main. Running over granite in the Fichtelgebirge, straight from the spring at the foot of the all- seeing Ochsenkopf mountain, the White Main water washes clear towards Red. The Red Main, rising in the hills of the Franconian Switzerland Jura mountain range, runs red over clay soil. In a quest for something stronger the two headstreams trickle, meander, then surge downstream, uniting to form the mighty Main, taking all they have seen and heard deep into the Rhein.

Upon careful consideration, contemplation and rumination, I reach out, grab the coffee and realise, “I got all of that in a take away cup”.

 

SIMPLY SLOWLY

Summarizing slow living: ‘You see stuff, hear stuff, learn stuff, connect stuff, appreciate stuff.’ For want of an ideologically saturated, nausea inducing attempt at describing a commonly cliched state of gratitude, mindfulness, contemplation and solace; simple is best. Simple is transparent and simple resonates. It sits well with the territory; the tractors, the old towns, the church turrets, the corn fields, village fountains and the ever – present tabby. Simple is what we have strapped to our backs, stuffed in our mouths and sets the unassuming perimeter for expectation and enjoyment.

Our real time GPS ‘dot’ moves slowly across the map in this crawl from town to town, forest to forest and field to field. As our kilometres are clocked, each path connects places to people, sites to stories, heroes to history and asking to answers. In a challenge not to count down, but to chalk up, we soak in the sun, seek out the locals, smash the unfriendly and sustain from taking shortcuts!

We move through the forests of Frankenwald to the Fichtelgebirge. Though the regions of Thüringen, Oberfranken and Oberpfalz. We cross boarders East and West, skirting Kingdoms, countries and current city lines. The rivers Selbitz, Saale and Eger narrate a past shaped of mills, wealth and toil; of mining, farming, smithing and guild crafts. We pass through the medieval towns of Münchberg, Laubersreuth, Kirchenlamitz and Heidelheim. We conquer the heights of the Waldstein and Kornberg, inhaling views from the top of Großbüchelberg. We light a candle of the faithful at the wood side Fatima chapel, so quietly she listens to prayers unspoken. We pass the Herr Gott Stone, of legendary magic and the granting of wishes. We sit at the Teufel’s Tisch in an invitation to play cards with the devil. We’re introduced to Bockpfeifers (Bagpipers), Napoleon, and the pioneering naturalist Humboldt. We follow ancient way markers through thickets, dark woodlands and medieval fortresses with an era of von Sparneck knights. We hide behind rocks of refuge sheltering gypsies, victims of Wars and the region’s most Wanted. We intersect with the ViaPorta von Volkenroda and the St James Pilgrim Ways, with the long – distance routes of E5 and E6 and develop appetite and appreciation alongside the educational Potato and Carp trails. We walk tracks studded with granite, shale, gneiss, basalt and all manner of geological treasure and meet the ‘porcelain princes’, Hutschenreuther and Rosenthal on roads paved ‘White Gold’.

We walk all of this with boots strapped tight, Band Aids protecting blisters, Autan applied in defence of dreaded ticks and compass bearings confirmed. This slow daily foot march of discovery rapidly assumes a pace of its own. It’s a fast way to form local connections. It’s an expedited journey through time. It’s an accelerated examination of society. It’s a high – speed way to slow down.

OF HISTORY AND HOPE

“Yes, across Europe, this wall will fall. For it cannot withstand faith; it cannot withstand truth. The wall cannot withstand freedom.” Ronald Reagan, West Berlin, 1987.

“The wall will be standing in 50 and even 100 years.” GDR Head of State Erich Honecker East Berlin, January 1989.

“It comes into effect according to my information, immediately.” Günter Schabowski, East Berlin, November 9^th, 1989.

“Now what belongs together will grow together.” Willi Brandt (Berlin’s Mayor), November 10^th, 1989.

“The wall was not brought down by Washington, Bonn or Moscow. It was razed to the ground by courageous and intrepid people, from both the East and the West.” Gerhard Schroeder, Former German Chancellor, Berlin, 1999.

“For anyone to understand a regime like the GDR, the stories of ordinary people must be told. Not just the activists or the famous writers. You have to look at how normal people manage with such things in their past.” Anna Funder, Stasiland.

“The woman who used to own this guesthouse was originally from the East. She fled to the West. A baker moved into the house and ran his business. After the wall came down, the woman returned to reclaim her house. The baker had to leave. She was not popular with the town’s people. When she sold me the guesthouse, she told me I won’t be popular with the villagers and to watch what I say. I’m from West Berlin and enjoy living here. I haven’t had any problems.” Guesthouse owner Blankenstiein 16^thSeptember 2019.

Heading North East out of Nürnberg, the single carriage train pulls deeper into former East Bloc territory. Once controlled by the USSR, houses and train stations lay dormant, desolate and decrepit in this region of former East Germany. Coloured graffiti disguises flaking rendered walls, glass window shards, smashed shale roof tiles, pigeons pooping in doorways, once manicured lawns now running wild, tell a story of a past in which we understand only shadows, a period in history disconnected from, yet intrinsically interwoven into its present. Cosy cafes now replace ration coupons. Train rides go unnoticed. Anglers are free to fish on both sides of the bank. Rusty wire waylaid, no longer garnishes autocracy. Concrete pylons stand naked and exposed, their former fortifications so fantastic – disbanded. Sirens, strobe lights and shotguns lie buried with a broken ideology, and of the “Wall of Shame” only memories remain.

There’s an irony in starting a 450km walk where distance was once measured by proximity to the Wall. Where a compass could confidently point in every direction except West. Where now, not 50 meters from the ‘death zone’, the Blankenstein Wanderdrehkreuz, marks the intersection of five regionally famous hiking trails, and maps a horizon in every direction. Not surprisingly we head off ‘West’.

The Selbitz river shares a narrative of boarder troops and lives lost. It speaks of desperate freedom flights, of isolation and disconnection. It tells of boundary houses erased and generations displaced. It shares a story of restoration, of colour and of hope. It crescendos in a chorus where bridges now replace frontiers and of freedom’s kaleidoscope. With a heightened gratitude in our footsteps, and confidence in our direction, we step into the Frankenwald, the first forest to form a connection to our 450km destination.

Trekking a trail through tall ‘Tannenbaum’ and quaint farmhouse villages, the sliding door sensation of what we have seen and heard accompanies us through a region scored with tragedy and triumph. In a testament to human spirit and solid belief in something greater, we are reminded of the 40^thanniversary to the exact day, on which a homemade balloon flight made history. Where the dream of a better tomorrow, scaled the heights of fear and imminent death. Where in the stealth of darkness bravery trumped politics and boarder police.  Where the‘Anti-Fascist Protection Rampart’was successfully navigated, not 4km from the end our first ‘Etappe’. A night remembered for setting a borderless bearing for freedom without limits and a new horizon for hope.

Stats:
September 16th, 2019
Blankenstein to Selbitz
Kms: 18.5

ARE YOU KID-DING?

“Because the teachers hate me.” Is the sweaty response from the continuously complaining 14 year old as to why he was in the most difficult hiking group on the school camp. “That way they don’t have me hanging around base camp for three days.” His athletic, teen build and energetic aura hinted at the more likely reason he’d been selected to pound the three day trail from Tidal River, to Waterloo Bay and on to Sealers Cove.

Radiating heat from rugged granitic rock faces smothers conversation as the group of heavily laden Year 8 students trek the path towards Little Oberon Bay. Seeking solace under sheoaks, embracing hints of cool ocean breeze, adjusting and readjusting packs in search of the sweet spot; oversized shoes generate demand for Elastoplast repairs to blistering feet as a steady rhythm develops, fate is accepted, complaints lessen, and grabs into scroggin filled zip lock bags increase.

In a trend soon to be solidified teens become toddlers at the sight of sand, waves and steep boulders. Agility training apparently already required after 4 kilometres, packs are shed, shoes tossed aside, and boulders scaled. Warnings to keep feet dry go unheeded as sand settling in socks create hotspots heading for a fortunately dry Growlers Creek crossing into Oberon Bay.

Along the sun-drenched track to Telegraph Junction black dust clutches perspiring legs and coastal breezes fade. A discontented murmuring amongst students confirms the disconnect between the kilometres to be covered on day one in the camp brochure and distance already covered. The ‘Are we there yets?’ increase as the additional 5 kilometres are added to the day’s agenda. Questions and complaints are unlikely to have been less with Telegraph Saddle as the Trailhead. The hope of a ‘swim’ at Waterloo Bay, keeps eyes peeled on the horizon and determination in strides.

After 15.7 kilometres, tea tree and messmates give yield to the white siliceous sands and the incandescent blue of Waterloo Bay. The outgoing tide seemingly extracting self – doubt and uncertainty, the salt air filling with the prospect of success, capability and confidence. Receding waves lap up vestiges of the ‘impossible’, invigorating the group’s last 1.5 kilometres to the campground as hats, food and clothing are rescued from the inlet crossing scrambling up to Little Waterloo Bay Track.

Excitement builds as tent poles poke and bend finding their correct order and angle, sleeping mats inflate for hopefully the required duration, and pack contents are strewn through sleeping quarters. “Remember no food in tents. Who needs wombats when you have each other!” The initial aversion to hiking and physical exertion dissipates in the steam of boiling noodle packets, apple crumble deserts and hot chocolates. Torchlight hides the reality of the drop toilet experience and lurking native animals hustle tired bodies into bed. As laughter roars and warnings for silence fly, who was it that didn’t want to hike?

Alarms ring early, in anticipation of severe afternoon storms. A speedy pace is set through an ever-inclining understory rich in lichen, moss and blue wrens, with a towering canopy of all things eucalyptus overhead. Shortly before Kersops Peak, pangs for morning tea are aroused by the all – pervading honey scent of the Kunzea Ambigua, strong enough to fool a bear. The view from Kersops Peak temporarily suspends all other form of teen conversation. Xbox has finally met its match in the spectacular vistas spanning the secluded Refuge Cove, misty mountain coverings and the huge expanse of the Tasman Sea.

Teenage egos jostling for position slowly meld into team as ‘can’t’ metamorphosizes into ‘can’. Passing through the once thriving whaling station of Refuge Cove and on to Sealers Cove, the site of a mid 1800’s timber mill sets the backdrop for the evening. Spared from the tent tearing storms and rain ravaging Tidal River, Trangia’s prepare dinners, burning pancakes and bracken simultaneously. Tents without flies bode disaster under the Cumulonimbus heavy skies, whilst guy ropes are set, and drainage dug for the pending downpour.

The final morning brings with it lessons in tent living, leaks and leeches. A crack of dawn departure avoids disaster at Sealers Creek where the tide already runs high. Hope beams wide as a rainbow points in the direction of the treasured trail end. Trudging through the temperate rainforest, ancient fern gullies, across boardwalks and over swamps, Windy Hill marks difficulty completed as the trail traverses towards its close.

Three days leave negativity, suspicion, self – doubt and uncertainty on the track. Telegraph Saddle is reached with ruck sacks lighter and spirits fuller with determination, resilience, courage and celebration of personal triumph over challenge with a request to “Do it again right now.” Personal fortification gradually collected in an environment where the crashing of waves and whistling of birds replace relentless pings of Insta posts and Facebook messages. Where chats lasted longer than a snap and the memories of fun, achievement, and triumph will last so much longer than a Fortnight.

Mangoes Make Memories

 

“Google Google on the wall, which is the fairest café of them all?” A modern age technological morning routine. With plenty of locals seeking refuge from the deluge in Mackay’s Dispensary Café, we get well caffeinated, drenched from crossing the street and immediately sweaty. Cranking up the aircon, the GPS is set, and we reconnect with Bruce.

Fields wrapping the roadway envelop us in endless green. Low lying clouds, teeming rain and upcoming weather shroud with grey. Yesterday was bushfires, today aquaplaning. “Haven’t you had enough of each other yet?”, my son asks laughing as he calls. He knows the answer is obvious. Despite the turn in weather and the suspense of The Lost Man – “Who killed Cameron?” The audio book hardly gets a listen in. We’ve got miles of chatting in us yet.

The metaphorical connection between great friendships and safe harbors does not escape us as we descend on Airlie Beach’s Abell Point Marina. The anchoring of trust and confidence, shelter from the storms, and celebration of milestones achieved enfolded in turquoise magnificence; reconnection, refuelling, and navigational opportunities resonate loudly. The marina and lagoon demand a longer stay, on another visit, on another day.

This road of friendship takes us for a stop to Bowen. Original home of the Kensington Pride Mango or Bowen Special. (“No, that’s not a giant egg, it’s a mango Jarka!”) Offshore breezes, palm trees and secluded shores compliment the hospitality of dear friends, stories of old and new, freshly caught prawns, Christmas ham and specially saved wedding cake. Another “harbour” encounter.

Sugar levels from our lunch stopover will have us hanging from the ceiling for hours. Fuel for an evening tour of Townsville, home to one of the largest zinc refineries in the world. Cargo ships, containers and cranes bellow commerce, productivity, trade and transience juxtaposed against scarlet skies trumpeting perpetual glory.

One thousand dollar hotel smoke alarm call outs bode badly for breakfast fruit toast, (fortunately they didn’t have that in Gundy!) Our media manager posts the latest spin on all her platforms- a sugar induced hysteria ensues. As night falls, the Stockman’s grave on Burley Downs cattle station calls. We go looking for clues about Cameron.

 

 

Coconuts and Coal

“Just slow down, slow down. Holy crap, that’s scary”. Surrounded by smoke, front and rear vision blocked, uncertain when the road would appear; driving through a bushfire was not part of the original list of experiences. Travelling along the Bruce Highway from the volcanic coastline of Yeppoon and Capricorn National Park, the heat source shaping this part of the hinterland landscape was a grassfire. Appearing suddenly and out of nowhere, we were somehow always going to meet the same fate as Thelma and Louise. We’d just been in denial.

As quickly as it came, it passed. True to his reputation old Bruce had been good. He’d guided us through. Today was Operation Rash Reduction, the focus on  lower kilometres, increased aircon and one designated driver was all aimed at harmony, balance and wellbeing – no stress. Besides, we’re not even halfway through the audiobook – can’t end yet. From the passenger seat “Better get some fuel, in case that happens again. Maybe some extra water too.” Our outback smarts increasing each day.

Exploration success factors include preparation and resources. We scored 0 on preparation. Resources we could acquire along the way. Strawberries fermenting on the back seat, butter leaking through its silver wrapping, popcorn and pretzel crumbs squashed under shorts. We’d collected a whole inventory of desert survival resources. Sugar, fat and carbs. With our zealous commitment to survival the next fuel stop is ours. Toilets out of order, half priced fried chicken and no unleaded petrol don’t equate to an effective survival checklist and after morning coffees at the Two Professors in Rockhampton, full cream milk lattes on lactose intolerant stomachs sounded worse than an empty fuel tank. One kilometre up the road a BP mirage appears.

With a local’s tip to stop at Hay Point, Bruce takes us smoothly through the sugar town of Sarina and on to the Point hosting one of the largest coal-loading facilities in the world. Barges proliferate on the horizon waiting for their cargo, tug boats line the marina, conveyor belts scrape the skyline. For a tropical beachside town, 120,439,077 tonnes of coal per annum seems like serious business. Signs warning of crocs and Irukandjui critters at beach entrances, fallen coconuts licensed to kill strewn over the road, and an influx of high vis workwear, trigger departure from the Point for something sweeter.

After 1,732 kilometres a silhouette appears on the roadside rapidly taking the shape of a banana. Our overland pursuit of ‘mega fructus’ has finally been rewarded. The connection between a fishing chandlery and bananas remains a mystery to us, but Queensland never promises to be self – explanatory to its East Coast relations.

Nicknamed the sugar capital, the sunset views from Mackay’s Lamberts Beach lookout are sweepingly sweet. I’m reminded at the end of day three that happiness is a car, an open road, a best friend and a mega banana.

Bananas?

Rising at the crack of dawn, we’re getting ready to meet Ludwig. Coffee being the best approach to any new introduction, the OK Milk Bar located near the statue of the champion race horse must be a winner, looking more like a hipster Brunswick hangout than a country café. The coffee experience  is enhanced with positive quotes on the counter and on coffee lids, ‘Believe in yourself.’ A good reminder for the next 712 kilometres. I reckon we are ready to meet Ludwig.

Named after the intrepid explorer and naturalist Ludwig Leichardt, the A5 welcomes us immediately with cows, emus and a Google Maps detour which we promptly override, in attempt to avoid the same fate as Leichardt. The fertile basaltic soil of the Darling Downs region along this route challenges us to a game of “What Crop Is That?”(A title soon to be filled with expletives after long hours of indeterminable crop gazing). An unconscious undertone of outback mystery and disappearance join Ludwig with The Lost Man. Eleven hours of audiobook, to break up the incessant conversation and travel commentary. “Shouldn’t we stop for fuel somewhere?”

Flood plains, bottle trees, rusty windmills and brolgas chart our path to the waters of Rockhampton. In anticipation of our first mega icon – a big banana, we stop in the one street town of Banana for fuel. No bananas. Not big or small. No mega icons. A British backpacker serving coffee in the middle of nowhere. “Why did you choose to work here?” we ask. “I needed to save some money. I came here for three months and have been here two years!” She must be rolling in it by now as their ain’t nothing in that town to spend it on! A new Banana attraction: A badass saver!

Thirty eight kilometres outside of Rockhampton nestled in the mountainous landscape we strike gold. Not a mega banana. Mount Morgan. The once booming gold rush town where William Knox D’Arcy accrued funds that eventually saw the birth of the BP Company, sets the historical backdrop for the treasures of Rockhampton we are soon to see. A now dormant mine cutting a hole in the picturesque backdrop, was considered to be one of the most important gold discoveries in the world.

Just as Leichardt leads us to Rockhampton, so too were his travels a guidepost for the early settler Archer brothers in 1854 scouting lands for grazing.  Nicknamed the ‘City of Three S’s’ – Sin, Sweat and Sorrow, we add another ‘S’, as we find our hotel along the Scenic Fitzroy River, where beautifully maintained Victorian buildings tell of a bygone era, in which ships steamed up and down the river, loading precious cargo in a bustling, vibrant port straddling the dividing line of the Tropic of Capricorn.

Away from the charm of Quay street, empty roads, dark alleyways, and ‘hidey alcoves’, bear down on our better judgment and draw us back to the vibrancy of the riverside business district. The Fitzroy shimmers gold, boats rock gently on moorings, the cool breeze whispers evening, screeching cockatoos find roost in gnarled gums drowning out dinner conversation, and pineapple PJ’s beckon. “Thanks for your company today Leichardt. Tomorrow we’ve got a date with Bruce.”

Pineapple Pyjamas

 

“Which way?” I ask. “Not sure. Put it into Google Maps and check the options” she answers. The itinerary is scratched on a shopping receipt shoved in the side door pocket and lists five overnight destinations. “The GPS is melting down, it wants you to turn right,” I direct. “I can’t, there’s a concrete median strip, the entire length of this highway” she replies. “I think that was an illegal U-Turn.” I add constructively. “I know. I didn’t think we’d make it with our turning circle either.” She laughs. “No biggie. Public holidays, double demerits and heavier fines in NSW. What better way to start a road trip? They make it hard to get out of Sydney, so let’s just do what it takes!” More useful commentary from the passenger seat. Nothing new to my best friend. The only time she’s ever been annoyed travelling with me was 30 years ago in Italy. Back streets, late nights, long kilometres walking  to youth hostels and a need for food extending beyond popcorn dipped in jam. This time we are doing it in style. (Popcorn does make an appearance down the track though).

Onto the Pacific Highway we leave the verdant north shores for the wide open road.
“You said you ‘n’ me was gonna get out of town and for once just really let our hair down. Well darlin’, look out ’cause my hair is comin’ down!” (Thelma: Thelma and Louise).
In the absence of any real long hair in the car, with a swag of podcasts and audiobooks ready for play and plenty to talk about we are set for the kind of ‘hair – down’ adventure. Besides, we have matching pineapple PJ’s packed. What more is needed for an adventurous trip to the tropics?

Kam – il -a – roi . Coon- a- bara- bran. Bog- a- bil-la. Goon-di- win- di. Four syllables. Big names for small country towns. It’s not difficult to see why songs have been written about outback places. The sorghum fields stretch for miles. Green meets blue. Wild horses and cows roam. The road is strewn with animals of all kinds and native carnivores swoop for a meal in front of fast moving cars. But pork?
“Gonna get myself a rifle and a load of good mongrel dogs.
Cause there’s too many pigs around Goondi
But if you gun them you can make a buck.
Tie em around the ankles
And hang em on the back of your truck.”
John Williamson, what were you thinking? Goondiwindi Pork? Where are we going?Lesson 1: There’s obviously something to be said for pre -trip research.

Rolling across the Queensland boarder along the picturesque bridge into Goondiwindi, there are no signs of pork. No rifles. No hunting dogs. A town famous for a race horse it seems -Gunsynd. A late afternoon stroll along the peaceful McIntyre River wraps us in the scent of Jacaranda blossom, Bougainvillea delights, Oleander wonder, and Mango magic. Tropical PJ’s here we come. Dinner at the historic Victoria Hotel, sees us pass on the pork sausages and settle for vegetarian. Too much meat today.

After eight hours of driving. One last challenge remains for the day. The cryptic motel Wi-Fi password as written: SNOWWHITE1(LOWERCASE). We crack the code, upload our photos, send messages to family and fall asleep to the tune “Taking me somewhere I’ve never been. Goondiwindi Moon.” (Lee Kernaghan). Chicken tomorrow?

 

Holy Sloot

The Netherlands -A modern day Atlantis, where Mulga Bill meets Willy Wonka. Bikes, sweets and self- confidence pile on top of dykes and delicacies while locks and levees protect this wet corner of the world from a sinking wet demise.

Renowned for its liberal views, masochistic artists, boys with fingers in dikes, longstanding trading smarts, Ajax Amsterdam and the 17^th century Golden Age; the country’s love of innovation, progression and unorthodoxy is refreshing. Stoic signs of Calvinism, reformational rebellion, protection of liberal freedoms and irreverent humour build a cultural levee from which the outside has little influence over which god to worship, how often to drink coffee, who to marry, what to smoke and certainly not what to have on breakfast toast.

As flat as the beloved pancakes traditionally digested, 17 million people pack the approximately 41,500 square kilometres of land. Enviable engineering feats see villages almost seven meters below sea level thrive and legacies preserved. Legends in navigation; touring through Vollendam, Edam, Uitdam, Durgedam, Monnickendam, Amsterdam, their literary ingenuity falls seemingly short of their seamanship horizons. This shortfall confidently offset by some 35,000km of bike paths guiding locals safely, and tourists dangerously and confusedly through narrow villages (“Je hebt recht”??), deep green pastures and intricate networks of canals and sluices.

Three imperative Dutch words underpin the cultural experience. Gezellig, lekker and leuk.
Gezellig: Don’t expect to travel many places alone. The population to land mass ratio ensures you will meet many friendly Dutch people in close quarters, in streets, or quaint houses along the way. Hugs from total strangers are also quite possible. Ensuring your experience will be “cosy”.
Lekker: Loaded fries is not a new idea from McDonalds. Mayo or some sort of sauce doused chips is a long Dutch standing tradition. Did we order fries or Mayo? Coloured sprinkles- Muisjes (small mice), chocolate sprinkles – Hagelslag, all things to sprinkle on bread for breakfast, lunch or dinner. Gouda, Edam, Limburger, Masdam cheese, all add up to ‘lekker’.
Leuk: Can be used for antique windmills, Holy Sloot, Bunschoten-Spakenburg and other multi coloured antique villages, unique historic fishing trawlers finding haven behind dikes, Friesian cows, toddler and young second cousins as well as everything else cute, impressive or lovely.

As the tides rise and fall against the Eemdijk, Afsluitdijk and Kinderdijk, it’s not the gravitational forces exerted by the moon and the sun, that draw us back to the ‘low country’, nor the promise of sugar, spice and all things nice. Family and friends open doors and hearts. Share a common history, engage in new stories forming future memories. A treasure richer than the Golden Age, more enduring than bright perennial tulips, larger than Madurodam and most times funnier than Apenheul.