CHAPTER 19
A couple of days later we left the gorgeous city in a hired estate car for our trip out into the country.

I had read a lot about the South West, and we planned a drive around the coast to Esperance, then up into the desert to Kalgoorlie and back out to Perth following the line of the water pipe from Mundaring. The weather was gorgeous, and when we finally left the suburbs behind for the long run down to Dunsborough, it was clear how different things were. The trees were like ghosts, all pale bark and odd leaves, and gum nuts were everywhere. Terry had been right, there were a lot of roos about, most of the ones we saw being roadkill. They lay in the ditch, bloated or exploded, eventually reduced to leather over bones. The tails seemed to last longest.

Dunsborough has a motel, and so although Terry had lent us his camping kit for the trip, we stayed there, and after a swim in the waters of Geographe Bay, with its superb beach, I nagged Tony into driving us up to see The Sugarloaf. This was partly selfish, as there is a colony of red-tailed tropicbirds there, but it turned out to be an absolutely lovely spot. A pod of dolphins swam through the channel beneath us, which sent Jim into delights, and then he pointed to the North.

“Daddy, what are all those boats for?”

I put my eyes to my binoculars and---yes, there it was, a spout. Whale watchers. I gathered Jim into my arms, gave him the binoculars, and enjoyed the whales with him. I never saw one, after that first blow, but he did, and Tony did, and that was special enough for me.

Dinner that night was a ‘counter meal’ in the pub round the corner, and my little man returned to the motel asleep in dad’s arms, clutching his rabbit.

We had come this way to spend some time at the wineries around Margaret River, and so we passed a day travelling slowly along Caves Road, stopping at cellars and wineries for me to sample what was on offer. I delegated the driving to my manservant, but he would be rewarded later. The bird life was astonishing, and live roos started to become more evident. That second night, we camped not much further on, at Alexandra Bridge in a scruffy little site by the river. Signs were appearing now telling us that the next supplies were 70 or 80km away, and we realised that we were leaving the populous bit and heading into wild country.

Jim was excited that night as we had a proper cook-out and ate outdoors watching the ducks and gallinules on the river, cockatoos screaming in the trees.. We let him stay up until it was dark, and used the torch to pick out some night-time roos on the site. Hint to Jim: ssshhhhhhhh!
I almost fell out of love with him that night, because he insisted on sleeping between me and Tony.

Tony had arranged a treat for us for the next night, and we cruised along through real bush for a while, flood relief gullies angling off from the road, until we turned off and suddenly hit hills. The hills then led to bigger hills, and then stands of immense trees, karri, with white trunks, smooth to a great height. Buried among the forest was a reservoir, with a waterfall, and a lakeside resort. Terry had booked us two nights there, and it was delightful. A good restaurant was next to our suite, which had a balcony overlooking the lake. There were “28” parrots and honeyeaters on our balcony, ospreys fishing the lake, and roos and emus all around. We spent the next day hiking round the lake in the parrot-rich forest to see the falls, Jim finishing the circuit on his dad’s shoulders and singing.

I know this is reading like a travelogue, but that was how I felt. There was just so much to see, it was coming from all directions One of the mornings at Beedelup we had a splendid fairy wren on the balcony, a bird so blue Jim asked if it was plastic.. Sensory overload….what did bowl me over was the simple friendliness of Western Australian people.

The car loaded, we set off for our next stop, which was a short drive away at Shannon National Park. I had read of the campsite, an almost fully natural place laid out on the street plan of an old logging town, and we wanted to give Jim as much time in the wild as we could. The ranger was a real country guy, with a cockatiel perched on his shoulder, and he let us use one of the little huts, each with an iron stove inside and a firepit for cooking outside. Not far away from us was a cluster of what the Americans call “RVs”, overblown coach-sized things . There was a group of children associated, but unlike Jim, who was enthralled by the parrots and kookaburras, and insisted on shushing his dad when he spoke too loud, the other kids were raucous.

We were sat at the firepit, having some pasta and stew, with an eye on the currawong perched nearby, when they came out. First to show was a young roo, followed by his mother, a joey’s head sticking out of the pouch. For ten minutes, they moved around only twenty yards from us, as Tony filmed on my new camera and Jim quivered with excitement, his hand over his mouth to catch any squeals. Then the neighbouring kids started an argument, and all three were off, bounding through the trees. Jim looked at me, eyes wide, and hugged me.

“That was like magic, mummy. This is the best holiday ever.”

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Oddly, it was cold enough in the night to need the stove. In the morning, the kids were being packed away, and one of them was wailing that they hadn’t seen any of the kangaroos. I wondered why.

Another easy drive down the road towards the coast again, and we pulled off at a lookout point for a cuppa and our first view of the Southern Ocean. There was a steep downhill after that, to an even steeper and longer uphill. As we ground up, we passed a solo cycle tourist with a fully-loaded bike, plodding steadily uphill as if he had all day. I suppose he did, really, but I pitied him nonetheless. We planned to have a night in Walpole, as we had read about a nature cruise across the inlet, and the next day drive to Albany. As we came down the other side of the hill, we spotted the magic sign “Motel”, and they had a room. To be honest, there wasn’t much of the town, but there was a daily trip out with a guide, and they did meals, and unlike us Jim couldn’t sit in a car all day.

I almost revised my decision when I saw what they had in the bar. In two pieces, one over the bar and a smaller part over the door to the gents’, was a mummified whale’s penis, together with copious references to “Walpole, home of the whale’s willy”

How on Earth do you explain that to an eight year old?

The meal was OK, the usual choice between fish and chips or chicken parmiggiana (the spelling varied with the bar, we found), the motel itself seemed to be gently sliding downhill, but it was clean and comfortable and the bar staff and regulars were lovely, making a real fuss of Jim, as they did over the cyclist who followed us in and proceeded to just about inhale a pint. No bloody wonder, on those hills.

We got seats on the tour boat the next day and it was brilliant. The guide was a short, shaven-headed and barefoot ecologist called Gary, and as we meandered round the sandbanks he told us stories of snakes and poison peas, feral cats the size of dogs and bushfires. He went into lavish detail about the biochemical effects of the various herbal poisons, and must have caught me nodding as he did so. Suddenly, he was talking directly to me.

“Is there a doctor on board?”

“No, a pharmacist!”

“Did I get it right then, mate?”

“Absolutely, Gary!”

“Ok, but I’ve got this rather embarrassing rash I’d like to show you later in private and”

The roar of laughter drowned him out, and he just grinned and winked.

We put ashore at a little jetty and walked a sandy path over the neck of a headland, stopping once for a mass stamping session to persuade a basking dugite to move on, and then there we were, on a perfect beach by a crystal clear ocean..

Jim was right. This was the best holiday ever. We linked hands and walked into the edge of the waves, laughing with happiness.

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