Hi all

So off we set, bright and early after having chatted to an old couple from Melbourne who weren’t inclined to help with our flat viewing problem. But they did tell us it had snowed there the week before and that the surfing in Bell’s Beach is superb. The first was greeted with absolute disgust and the second with indifference.

We went off to do the Great Ocean Drive which is about a thirty six kilometres drive along some absolutely fantastic coastline, with the final destination being the Pink Lake. Our first stop and Mand excitedly pointed out the sea lions swimming just off the beach. I looked. And looked again. And then had to patiently explain to her what surfers are. Bless. But hey, sharks sometimes make the same mistake, so you can’t blame her for getting it wrong. But these were our very first surfers in Australia. And they were absolutely rubbish. We stood for and watched them paddle like crazy only to stand up and be dumped straight back into the water again. This has made me even more determined to have a go asap. I’ve GOT to be better than those donkeys. Eventually, one of them successfully made a decent go of it and came strutting out of the sea like Neptune himself. Good lad. We were impressed anyway.

A couple more stops along the coast (on one of which Mand found hundreds of fairy wings - the same beach had the deepest softest sand we’ve found anywhere thus far. Like walking on soft snow) and it started to rain. But we pushed gamely on to Pink Lakes took one look at the decidedly normal coloured water and, feeling slightly robbed, though not altogether entirely surprised, got back in the car. The thing is we’re becoming used to these little letdowns. Whistling Rock didn’t whistle, the Blowholes hardly blew, no salmon at Salmon Rocks and now no pinkness at Pink Lakes. Although to be fair I think if I follow this line of thinking Hellfire Bay wouldn’t have been quite so much fun.

But now we were finally leaving the coast and heading inland for our first real taste of the outback, or more specifically the desert. And to be perfectly honest we couldn’t wait. Not that we were sick of the outstanding beauty of the beaches and forests, but definitely sick of getting battered by gale force winds, getting wet and having to dress like it was winter the whole time. Kalgoorlie should sort that out. The week before the temperature there had hit the low 40s. Lovely job.

In the car and we set off inland for the first time and within a matter of minutes the temperature went up. And carried on going up. And up a bit more. Before we knew it, we were sweltering and wishing longingly for a nice fresh breeze. Mand ‘helped’ take our minds off it by keeping me up to date with all the latest celebrity gossip. Posh Spice calling Katie Holmes ‘too fat to get married’, Britney and K Fed (what the f***?) getting nasty over their divorce, and all those other real life stories that I just can’t live without knowing about. Just when I thought I was going to go stark staring mad at the banality of it all, the redeeming sight of ‘Norseman 10km’ on a sign appeared. Woo hoo. By now we’d been going for about two hours and were more than ready for a stretch and a look around a town.

How disappointed we were. Norseman is in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Ok, it’s in the middle of loads of sand. As we drove around, struggling to find the town centre, it suddenly occurred to us that we’d driven through it three times already. It’s that kind of town. The town centre consists of six shops and a pub. And two of the shops were closed. We parked up in this swirling metropolis and headed into the pub and asked the barmaid if they did food. Not til six o’clock came the reply, in a cockney accent. f***in cockneys, they’re everywhere. Foregoing the opportunity to ask yet another total stranger who we’d never see again where they were from, how long they’d been here etc etc (although to be fair this would probably have been one of the more interesting ones) we just asked, trying to look as unfazed as possible, if there was anywhere we could get some food. She directed us to the Miners and Workers Club down the road, and fearing the worse we headed that way.

It actually turned out to be really nice. We ordered ourselves some food nd a couple of beers, and feeling a bit like the beginning of Natural Born Killers we headed to the jukebox and the pool table. I beat Mand (just thought I’d put that in) and not really wanting another game I began idly flicking through the jukebox. It was a great jukebox. There was one dance album on the whole thing. The rest was pure rock, and country and western. Beautiful. AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, Steve Earle, Dolly Parton. But the one that stuck out for me was Kenny Rogers - The Greatest Hits. Oh my God. There are two songs that have stayed with me since childhood by this man (thanks ever so much mum and dad), and they were both on there. The Gambler and Coward Of The County. I couldn’t resist and two bux later I promptly set about serenading Mand to The Gambler while Kenny helped with the harmonies. I even did my best cowboy accent to give it the necessary edge. Cool. Next up, Coward Of The County. And here I found something which almost had me choking on my fish and chips. They’ve changed the words. Of an absolute classic. I can’t believe it. Now, I might be mistaken as I haven’t heard this song for years (I still know pretty much all the words mind) and I am absolutely 100% certain that the line goes ‘But you coulda heard a pin drop, when Tommy drew his gun’, a line that still sends shivers through me now. The drama of it made me want to be a cowboy when I was a kid. Ok, it still does now... But here’s the point (at last). Now old Kenny drawls ‘But you coulda heard a pin drop, when Tommy locked the door’. My memory is usually pretty good when it comes to lyrics but if anyone can confirm for me that this has changed, I’d be well happy. For now I’m blaming it on censorship due to gun issues in the US. In fact, I don’t want to know cos if it’s always been this I’m going to have to seriously rethink my whole future career as a Kenny Rogers impersonator. Or a cowboy.

Anyway, we scoffed our tucker (loving the Aussie language) and then the heavens opened. In the f***ing desert. It appears we’d brought the weather with us. I sprinted back to the car and drove back down to pick Mand up and we headed out of Norseman in a huge storm. b******s.

Now this storm was truly huge. Hardly any thunder, but lightning like I haven’t seen, well ever. To start with it appeared to be coming up from the ground to the sky (I think I remember something from physics that explains why this is) and then it was just everywhere. Huge flashes of jagged lightning and raindrops the size of old ten pence pieces. The rain only lasted about twenty minutes, but the lightning went on for about an hour. It was a sight to behold and at times seemed to be right on top of us. What made it scary was the presence of the Road Trains. These mothers are something else. They’re about 35 metres long and are an articulated lorry, with another one stuck on the back. And they love tailgating. Even in the pissing Rain when visibility is down to about twenty metres. Arse holes. The thing that just kept going through our minds was that if we had to break then we’d out-brake them by a country mile. Meaning they’d smash into the back of us. Priscilla’s big, but she’s not that big.

All the while, Bob Dylan had been playing on the stereo. Thanks to our system with the ipod we now got Blood on The Tracks, Blonde on Blonde, Bob Dylan and Bob Dylan Live at The Albert Hall all in a row. This was broken (seemingly momentarily) by Blood Sugar Sex Magic by the Chillis. Let’s just say I was in hog heaven as I wailed along (especially to the entirety of Bob Dylan - although I once again failed to keep up with him on Freight Train Blues - how the hell does he hold a note that long) whilst Mand clutched her head and pretended she didn’t like it. I could tell she did really, so redoubled my efforts. And that brought us to Kalgoorlie, where we checked in and met up again with Andy and Kimbers with the intention of getting plastered as this would be our last night together for a long while (well, six weeks or so anyway).

Now Kalgoorlie is a mining town, pure and simple. It made it’s name as goldmining town, but now caters almost as much for tourists. There are mines to be toured, brothels to be toured and erm, well that’s about it. The campsite we booked into is like a big car park and virtually all the other residents are miners. One of them is a guy called Craig who was born in York, got brought here by his mum when he was eight and has only been back once since then. He’s one scary looking dude but as it turns out he’s an absolute diamond. He can’t do enough to help us (like pricing up bits and bobs he thinks we might need to cross the Nullarbor) and has installed an alarm on the fridge after someone ripped the lock off it a few nights before and stole a load of his grog. Thank f*** it was only gin. However, as much help as he is, he refused to ask his sister in Melbourne to view our flat for us. b******. Craig is a miner by trade. However he is also a pothead. Unfortunately, due to health and safety regs he’s got to pass a drug and alcohol test before they’ll let him work. He’s been here three weeks, took a test on Monday and was still three times over the acceptable limit. And he still claims he hasn’t got any. And he definitely can’t sort us out with any either. Actually, I take it all back. Craig is as much use as a condom in a convent. The chances of us crossing the Nullarbor without a joint to while away the hours are getting higher and higher...excuse the pun.

That’s about it for first impressions of Kalgoorlie and it’s residents. The booze session with Kimbers and Andy fell by the wayside when they went to bed early, but by that time we were just about ready for bed too. Party animals, that’s us.

Laters all

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx