Hi all

The next morning saw Andy and Kimbers up early and disappearing off to Albany, while me and Mand decided we’d quite like to have a couple of days bimbling around Denmark. The fact that we had hangovers that made us wish we were dead had nothing to do with it.

And bimble we did. Denmark is a delightfully sleepy little town where nothing moves above a snail’s pace. So much so that when we got into town at about 8.30 there was virtually nothing open. After a few minutes we managed to find a bakery that was open enough to be selling smoothies and we attempted to aid the hangover process by drinking one each followed by a milkshake. The day was bright and sunny and bordering on the warm so we sat back in a little gardeny type thing in the shade and tried not to throw up as we drank. Mission accomplished and we decided to have another look down Main Street. By now it must’ve been about nine-ish and the place was starting to show signs of coming to life. So much so that on our second circuit one of the cafes had opened. Woo hoo. So we sat back ordered a couple of plates of scrambled eggs on toast and watched as Denmark went from comatose, to sleepy, to merely drowsy. A well dressed middle aged busker arrived and set up outside the café and much to our delight began playing quiet classical music. A passerby happened past and asked a question about the style the guy was playing in and the busker promptly gave him a half hour guitar lesson. Afterwards, they shook hands thanked each other with huge smiles and the passerby passed on. No money was exchanged in the entire episode. Some busker. But that just epitomises the attitude and speed that Denmark lives by. Superb.

By about ten we were finally ready to tackle the main reason for our day. Internet. Now sometimes I find it really soothing to sit in front of a computer all day when I have a hangover, and others it’s the devil’s work. Happily, for me it turned out to be the former and I hit a rich vein of form as I tried valiantly to catch up some of the website (I think at this point I was still writing about Vietnam - oh yeah, and I’m writing about this in Melbourne on 30th January while Mand coughs like a 40 a day smoker in the bedroom - nice). Anyhoo, for Mand it turned out to be the latter. She huffed and she puffed and she tried really hard to blow the computer up. The final nail in the coffin for the day was when she spent about three hours trying to buy Big Day Out tickets and eventually ended up screaming obscenities down the phone at some poor girl on the other end. And I mean screaming. And I really mean obscenities. It was like being in an Irvine Welsh book for a minute or so. At this point I decided that what we really needed was some lunch and a nice quiet sit down. Anyone who knows Mand, and I’m assuming anyone reading this does, then you know the way she sometimes gets with a hangover and you know the way she always gets when she’s hungry. So obviously the café we chose for chilling out wouldn’t sell us a sandwich. It appears even in the beautiful slow paced town that is Denmark shop assistants are about as much use as rehab to Doherty. After several long stares from Mand and a number of questions along the lines of ‘but there’s all the sandwich stuff there, can’t you just make us one?’ (the sandwich stuff was in a cold hold which had a transparent plastic lid pulled over it) and answers along the lines of ‘But we only sell sandwiches til two o’clock and it’s now several minutes past and if I even touch that plastic cover it would result in a countdown timer activating that when it reaches zero will set off an explosion that will wipe out Denmark and the surrounding areas and poison the soil for generations to come’, I could see Mand was about to go Happy Gilmore on the woman and decided it was in everyone’s best interest to remove her from the shop. Instead we headed to another bakery who, thankfully, were willing to remove the magical, mystical force field that was protecting their sandwich fillings and made us exactly what we wanted. With chips. Now that’s what I’m talking about. With Mand now mollified but still having the odd tourettes outburst without warning (‘Well it’s not f***in difficult is it?’ ‘What the f*** is up with people in Australia?’ ‘Stupid f***in b****’) we headed back to the campsite (where we studiously avoided Russ and his band of merry men because Mand was too embarrassed to face them) and spent a glorious afternoon by the water, reading, chatting and generally doing nice stuff.

That evening as we cooked our meal in the camp kitchen our attention was caught by an odd Scottish couple. He looked about seventeen and she looked about forty odd and they were deep in conversation with a foreign couple (Swedish maybe) about house prices and how much they’d risen. Now I figured the Jocks were actually a couple (they kept talking about ‘our house’) and although I thought it slightly ooky didn’t pay it much attention. As it happens we caught up with them again in Albany and it turns out they were mother and son. But more about that later.

So it was with full bellies and a much happier Mand that we tucked ourselves into our sleeping bag and drifted off to sleep. The next day we were off to Albany after we’d had a good look round the area surrounding Denmark. Cool.

The next morning was again bright and sunny and waking up next to crystal blue water is such a fantastic feeling that you can’t help but be in a good mood. Even if the temperature is hovering at around four degrees. We had breakfast, packed up and headed off. Our aim for the day was to drive down to a place called Elephant Rocks via the Denmark tourist drive then head on to Albany to catch up with the other two and let them know that we had changed our plans and weren’t going to be going with them up to Darwin. The drive was lovely, taking in farmsteads and forest in equal measure. A glorious drive on a glorious day. Our first stop was at a local art gallery displaying works by local artists. We went into this feeling like we’d gain some insight not only into the town itself, but maybe into it’s residents. We were greeted at the door by one of the artists who told us cheerfully to take our time looking round and that if we had any questions just to give her a shout. Then off she went to look all arty and stuff with an easel out the back. Now before I get to slagging off the art let me explain a few personal views. Firstly, I like some kinds of art (especially Renaissance period stuff), some I find a mixed bag (most modern art falls into this category as does stuff from the Arts and Crafts Movement) and some I think is absolute b******s (like Aboriginal art). Having said that, this is a fairly fluid system. By gaining something of an insight into the artist’s intentions for the piece, or their frame of mind at the time, a piece I find to be initially s***e I suddenly come to appreciate and occasionally it becomes great. Point in question would be Michelangelo’s ‘David’. When I first saw it I honestly couldn’t see what the fuss was all about. It’s huge and it’s out of proportion. Really out of proportion. Alright, it’s pretty good, but there are plenty of other statues which I prefer. Like a million Henry Moores. But then Mand told me that Michelangelo was twelve when he sculpted it. Twelve. And the reason the hands and feet are out of proportion is because all kids draw people like that. And it was carved from one single piece of marble. So I have to agree now, that it is a masterpiece. I appreciate it so much more just from knowing these two simple things. This has happened a few times to be honest but I guess that’s partly what art appreciation is all about.

So, on to this local gallery. Some of it was pretty good. A lot of it was sketchy watercolour and some of it was collage, neither of which particularly stirs me but hey, it was nice enough stuff. But there was also a lot of abstract stuff. By abstract I mean s***. Like four different coloured lines which represent the mother and her daughter at her first birthday party when it rained for twenty minutes. Or whatever. But here’s the thing. Accompanying each of these pieces was a commentary. Sometimes the commentary went on for two A4 pages. About what the artist was feeling for the five years before they painted the two spirals and a wiggly line, why they chose the materials they did, and, and this is the bit that really really gets my goat, what it’s supposed to be a picture of. Now forgive me, but shouldn’t the picture itself convey that? Or alternatively, shouldn’t the viewer be allowed to decide what it means to them personally? If I see it and it makes me feel happy, and Mand sees it and it makes her feel sad, do we really need the artist giving a 200 word essay on how it’s supposed to be the cliffs at Elephant Rocks on a cold winter’s day twelve years ago, when the light was fading at about 6.30pm, while the artist was wearing scarf and hat of olive green, and she was thinking about what to make her husband for tea the following week. Talk about trying too hard. It was almost like they were excusing the s***eness of it, or trying to make us see something which was ridiculously personal to the artist herself. Either way it pisses me off. It’s art. If you feel like it, paint it. But please don’t feel the need to justify it, or try and use it as some sort of vindication of, or witness to, your life. Keep it to yourself. A simple three or four word insight is all I need, thank you. Elephant Rocks In Winter. Sadness At Elephant Rocks. Sad Elephants Rock, even. And if it means that much to you, why sell it? Incidentally the prices ranged from $150 to $700. Laugh? I nearly went into business myself. As I was slowly working my way into a frenzy about the gashness of it all (I know I could’ve left, but I like getting on my high horse sometimes...whaddya mean you know? How rude!), I was also trying hard not to let an attack of gas overtake me. Eventually though I could hold it no longer and having a careful check round to make sure no-one was about, I squeezed one out. Unfortunately it burst forth like the Lord God Almighty himself had just ripped his trousers. It actually echoed. Mand immediately turned and scurried out the door. What I hadn’t realised was that Mand was walking towards the opposite door to where the artist was working to ask which of the artists she was, and the artist on seeing this had come virtually into the room to meet her. My last glimpse of the artist was of her horrified face going rapidly crimson as I hurried after Mand trying my best to keep the fit of giggles I was undergoing in some kind of order. For her part, I’m sure the artist has made some kind of collage, complete with four page synopsis, to help her come to terms with this latest upset in her life...

Back in the car and the drive continued through more glorious countryside, with me still giggling like a ten year old schoolboy and Mand berating me for acting like the said ten year old schoolboy. Hey, farts are funny. They always will be. What can I say? Soon though, we came to a farm/zoo which proclaimed itself open and also that they now had koalas. Real ones. That you could touch. Done deal. In we went, paid the ridiculously low asking price for admittance and were soon immersed in the world of the fluffy, feathery, hairy and the undeniably cute. There was a dingo, a camel, emus, baby goats, bison, kangaroos, deer, llamas, pigs, cattle and koalas. I f***in love petting zoos, even the more mundane ones in England. But not as much as Mand obviously. Like a Stepford Wife she was unerringly drawn in a straight line to the bunny bit. Pushing toddlers out of the way and threatening their parents if they got too close, she was soon all alone in a six foot by six foot cage with about thirty bunnies and twenty guinea pigs. And there she sat with them climbing all over her. For about two hours.

Suddenly though, the air was rent with a screaming the like of which I have never heard. Like you imagine a pig to make at slaughter. Crossed with someone scratching their fingernails down a blackboard. And it went on and on. With Mand otherwise engaged with the bunnies I hopped off out of it to go see just what was going on. In the barn next door were two blokes with this wild hairy thing stretched out with ropes and pulleys, doing unnatural things to it. One had what looked like jizz all over him. I pulled my phone out and was about to call the bestiality hotline when I realised that what they were actually doing was giving it a haircut. And the wildly snorting screeching thing they had tied up was an alpaca. Personally, I’d never heard of one, but it turns out they’re a bit like llamas but much much cuter and their hair is much sought after. It’s actually softer than cashmere. They are gorgeous. This one, the guy with jizz all over him told me with a hint of pride, was a champion. And he was getting his haircut ready for the Albany Show the following day, where he was expected to win. The whole time he was talking to me though, my eyes couldn’t help returning to the large dollops of jizz slithering down his face and shirt. This must be a guy that really enjoys his job. Suddenly, without warning he gets a large dollop of it on his finger and waves it under my nose. ‘Know what this is?’ he bellows at me. ‘Daddy sauce?’ I ask in a quavering voice. ‘What? No, it’s alpaca spit. They spit at you when they get mad. Like camels.’ Thank f*** for that...

I headed back to tell Mand all about it but found that she’d now named every single bunny and guinea pig in the place and that she was now sitting with about thirty in her lap, trying desperately to cram more on. I swear to God she’s like a crack addict where rabbits are concerned. Anyway, she refused to move before she’d held them all one more time, despite my gentle encouragement to let the other kids have a go now. The alpaca matey happened past at this point, took one look at Mand and obviously thought she was retarded. ‘Ah bless her’ he says, ‘hang on one minute’. True to his word he then comes back about a minute later with loads of really long grass, which he lays round Mand’s feet and in her lap. Immediately she’s set upon by every single one in the place. This is like catnip for rabbits and guinea pigs. They are climbing all over her. She’s squealing and cooing and the guy steps back gives me an understanding smile and asks ‘What’s up with her?’ ‘Watership Downs Syndrome’. He nods sympathetically and walks away.

After about another twenty minutes, I eventually get Mand out and we wander around the remainder of the zoo. Suddenly, out of nowhere we are standing in a swarm of huge flying ants. Millions of them. It turns out they’re coming out of an old tree stump in the bison enclosure. We fight our way back to the shop/entrance to ask the woman if we can go in and stroke the koalas. ‘Yeah’ she says, ‘I’ll come with you’. She takes one look at the swarm outside and changes her mind. ‘Oh, just open it up and go in, you don’t need me.’ So it was that we found ourselves alone in the koala enclosure stroking and cuddling two huge koalas. They are gorgeous, gorgeous animals. Lazy, but gorgeous. They just lay there while we smoothed their bellies, ruffled their ears and generally made a nonsense of their afternoon nap. By now, the ants were all over us and we headed back to the shop (despite Mand’s plea for one last go in the bunny enclosure ‘just to say goodbye’), and after a quick look round we headed off for our next stop. The Ugg Boot factory.

The weather by now had taken a turn for the worse. In fact we were in the middle of a huge thunderstorm. Now here’s a thing. When I was a kid, someone (I’m sure it was Fraser) told me that when the flying ants come out it means there’s going to be a storm. Since then, whenever I see flying ants I’m convinced there’s going to be one. And I can’t remember it never being true. Can anyone verify this? I might just have selective memory here. In fact the more I think about it the more I’m certain it was Fraser. He told me it was because of the thermals needed for a storm. They rumble underground and all the ants come flying out. But I digress. The Ugg Boot factory was obviously one for Mand. I didn’t even know what Ugg Boots were (they’re those furry wellies in case anyone actually cares), but I was taken with the little coffee shop they also had in there. While Mand amused herself looking at the boots, I ordered us up some coffees and over heard the woman eulogising over the cake Claire had just made. Claire was the girl serving behind the counter and I have to say it was a truly delicious cherry cake. I told her this and in return got a smile. A proper one. Not forced or sarcastic. A nice shop assistant? In Australia? No way.

Our penultimate stop on the tourist drive was a local toffee factory which I only mention because we went there. If you’re ever in this neck of the woods you too might be tempted. Don’t be. The only good thing about going there was that the storm abated and the sun came shining through once again. Ten minutes later and it was like the storm had never happened.

And so, in blazing sunshine, we arrived at our final destination. Elephant Rocks. Now it’s not immediately obvious why they’re called Elephant Rocks. They’re a bunch of rocks in a cove. But as you come down towards them it becomes suddenly apparent. In fact the conversation went something like this: ‘This is b******s. Why the f*** are they called Elephant...f***in hell, that’s amazing’. They look (and I know this is probably obvious to everyone except me) exactly like a herd of elephants. And not in an abstract ‘if you tilt your head and squint in the right light’ kind of way, in a very real and obvious ‘oh my God they’re elephants’ kind of way. They are fantastic. I was thunderstruck. Down in the sand and it’s even more obvious. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I could have stayed all day. But by now we were getting hungry and I had so many flies on me I was starting to feel like one of those blokes who covers themselves in bees for the Guinness Book Of Records every once in a while, so we headed back to Denmark where we ate in the same café as the day before. Just because we knew they’d make us what we wanted. A small thing in the catering industry, but one that’ll never go out of fashion.

And then with a cheery wave to sleepy little Denmark we were off to join the other two in Albany, where we’d been informed they were offering a free night’s accommodation. I loved the place already.

Laters all

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