The stretch of coastline around the Apostles is being continuously shaped by wind, rain and waves, creating a huge natural sculpture park from the limestone cliffs. We'd be basing ourselves in Port Cambell, north of the Apostles, so we stopped off along the way and joined hordes of other tourists clamouring for a view of the famous rocks. There was a defiant dignity about the stacks, resisting the onslaught from the elements but knowing that the waves would claim the ultimate victory.
While watching the scene change dramatically as scudding cloud gave way to bright sunlight, we chatted for over an hour with a fellow thirty-something round the world traveller, who was following a similar route to ours only in the opposite direction, after swapping tips and horror stories of robbery and dysentery we were forced to return to the van when the heavens opened and there was a torrential downpour. We headed off to Port Campbell, which turned out to be a pretty town with a deep harbour flanked by steep sandstone cliffs. We spotted several small groups of the Ulysses 'senior' bikers club (motto: growing old disgracefully) up and down the street. Most looked more Miss Marple than Marlon Brando but their lifestyle and philosophy sounded pretty good to us.
We spent the next few days driving back down the coast to investigate fantastically named features like Loch Ard Gorge and the Gibson Steps and took a walk along the clifftops in Port Campbell. The coast is a treacherous one for ships of all kinds, in fact the Loch Ard Gorge was named after a ship which was dashed against the rocks there leaving only two survivors.
After leaving Port Campbell, we followed the Great Ocean Road north to Warrnambool. The town was large and the centre crammed with shops - just what we needed after being deprived of consumerist pleasures for a week or so!
Once again the campsite was positioned close to the beach so we took a walk along the long sweep of Lady Beach and watched local kids, seemingly born without a sense of smell, bodysurfing headfirst into banks of fishy smelling, leathery kelp.
Just north of town we parked the van at the ominous sounding Thunder Point and strolled along the coastal track which led us to some deserted beaches where we sat and watched the waves.
After a couple of days wandering around town we packed up and shipped out once more, this time heading for our final destination on the Great Ocean Road - Port Fairy. Possessing a slightly bohemian and well-to-do air, Port Fairy proved to be a good spot for Alex to spend her birthday. By now we'd grown accustomed to beautiful, sandy coastlines and the bay proved no exception. At the northern end of town we went on a nature ramble around Griffiths Island, the home of a huge muttonbird colony who built their nests in burrows in the sand dunes.
For Alexs birthday treat we went into town for a meal and a couple of drinks or at least that was the plan. As we pushed our way through the pub door we knew instantly that we wouldnt be staying long! It was like a scene from a Western movie, when all the commotion comes to an abrupt stop in the saloon as the 'stranger' pushes open the swing doors. I was surprised they could see we weren't locals as I was having difficulty in peering through the thick tobacco fog that hung in the air. The tension was broken by the jabbering of kids seated at what looked like a school trestle table in the next room. Apparently, this was the 'dining room'. No need to make excuses, we left. The pizza restaurant up the road proved far more celubrious but our hopes of a few quiet drinks in one of the other pubs were dashed as they were full of hammered teenyboppers dancing round the bar shouting song lyrics at each other.
The best place in town by far was the groovy Surf Cafe which served the 'best coffee in town' according to the slightly eccentric but likeable owner who sang along with the Dylan tracks playing on the stereo.
So that was the end of our adventures on the Great Ocean Road, but time wasnt up in the campervan, not by a long way...
We left Port Fairy early and it was a good job we did because we missed the inland turnoff that would take us to Halls Gap in the Grampian Mountains, not once but twice! After almost driving all the way back to Warrnambool, we backtracked and eventually found the turnoff. Driving on the quiet country roads was a good change from the coastal route. We often found ourselves having to pull in to let faster vehicles past. No worries here though, and by mid afternoon we arrived in Halls Gap, built along the road in a narrow valley slap bang in the middle of the Grampian mountains. Its location enticed trippers from a wide area, from schoolkids on organised bushwalks to OAPs wanting to take in the scenery without having to wander too far from their cars.
The campsite was quiet - until near dusk when a flock of renegade cockatiels swooped through the gumtrees shrieking as they went. Galahs soon joined in and the cacophony was completed by some punky looking Kookaburras whos chattering sounded like a troupe of monkeys, shouting to each other through the bush.
As darkness fell, the noise diminished but the fun wasn't over yet. First one, then another bounded out from the trees to sniff around the campsite and munch on the grass near the tent sites. Altogether, there were about a dozen resident kangaroos who'd come out foraging at night. They were obviously used to people and it was easy to get a close look before they'd shoot upright and stare at you menacingly if you got too close.
As the sun fell, so did the temperature. This didn't help the cold Alex had caught and despite planning lots of walks the only one we managed was to the Venus Baths, natural rocky pools high up in the hills, they were lovely but we'd barely touched on the beautiful country the area had to offer.
Time was now running short as we had to have the van back in Adelaide in a couple of days. To break up the journey, we decided to head for Robe, on the coast a days drive south of Adelaide. The drive was going swimmingly until there was a loud bang and a hiss and Alex leaned out of the window to confirm we had a puncture, great! my masculinity was about to be challenged in one of those situations that men are supposed to be genetically equipped to deal with. I feigned calmness and set about trapping my fingers under the spare tyre as it fell from under the van onto the road. Acting cool, I pretended it didnt hurt, and set about stuffing pebbles under the front wheels before nearly put the jack through the floor of the van. Several moves that wouldnt be found in the AA Handbook later, we were back on the road. We reached Robe on all four wheels a few hours later and thats when I uncrossed my fingers.
Unfortunately, our abiding memory of Robe will be the hideous stench coming from the lakes alongside the road into town. The guidebook says it's a lovely place and I'm sure it is, but a quick trip to the first store we encountered for supplies was as far as we got.
The campsite was OK though and, on the last morning of having the van, I performed the sacred and significant act of 'emptying the chemical toilet for the last time', a thankless but necessary task that put me off prawn cocktail crisps for life, 'nuff said!
The journey from Robe to Adelaide looked pretty straightforward on the map, a steady drive of 400kms or so up the coast but we soon found ourselves running behind schedule. The situation worsened after we'd made a detour to see Larry the Giant Lobster, one of Australias 'Big Things'. We soon found ourselves going flat out (legally of course, officer), up the Princes Highway, passing the sandy coastal expanse of Coorong National Park along the way. Aiming to return the van with no petrol left in the tank (we'd pre-paid for a tank full when we picked it up), we ended up coming off the Highway twice to put the equivalent of about a quids worth in just to get us to Adelaide. These little detours proved very costly time-wise, as we drove up and down the main 'streets' of these tiny, dust blown towns desperately trying to find some petrol.
By the time we reached Adelaide it was touch and go whether we'd have the van back before the Britz office closed. It was the evening rush hour and every light seemed to be against us. Of course we also took wrong turns and it was more by luck than judgement that we arrived with five minutes to spare. It was only then, with me bathed in sweat and reaching the point of nervous breakdown that Alex said "Isnt there a time difference between Melbourne and Adelaide?" Oh yes indeedy! half an hours difference to be precise which meant that after all the frantic panicking we'd arrived with over half an hour to spare. Oh, how we laughed as I resisted the temptation to repeatedly whack my head off the steering wheel.
Half an hour later, we were safely ensconsed in the Adelaide YHA, and our campervan high jinx had come to an end. We'd grown to love our expensive transport / accommodation combo but it was time for a change of pace. Soon we'd be letting the train take the strain - aboard the Indian Pacific, across the Nullarbor Plain to Perth.
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