There comes a time in everyone’s life when they realise they ain’t what they used to be. I may feel 30ish but my body says “who the fuck are you kidding”

We had made it to Port Macquarie, a gorgeous spot, parked our vans in the park on the breakwater and prepared to stay for a few days, fish, walk and paint a rock (it’s something you do in Port Macquarie). Unfortunately, the weather gods were not smiling at us. It had rained so hard that our site was hardly visible due to a minor flood, and gale force winds that rocked the trusty Jayco and not in the sense of “if the van is rockin’ don’t bother knockin’.” No, driving rain and howling winds were the order of the evening, leading us to plan the next day’s activities and pursue some indoor sports for fun.

Ten Pin Bowling it is. For me, this was awesome. Back in the day, I had been an Australian Champion Bowler, yes I may have been 18 at the time and I’m now somewhat 60ish but I’m sure you never lose your skills. We head off, arriving a little later than everyone else who had managed to find their balls and a bar. Who knew you were allowed alcohol at a bowling alley? Times had certainly changed for the better. We pair into teams and prepare to play, I strike on the 1st ball, and this is where I should stop the story because it all went downhill from there. We finish up, take selfies, have more bubbles n beer and head to a great outdoor bar. The sun is shining and we feel great……….until the next morning when you realise that bits of you are not responding to motion in a normal way. Everything is stiff, how could this be we had only played 2 games, it’s then you realise that your mind is refusing to believe how old you are but your body is screaming “dam bitch, next time take an anti-inflammatory with your champagne”

It was after this activity when Wandering West Australian Wife started to complain of pain in parts of her body that are not used to being stretched and pulled regularly, Mrs Roaming Romaior who can often be found laying on the floor of her caravan, legs in the air or bent over doing the downward dog in the effort to remain supple on her sojourn was also complaining of sore butt muscles. Where once upon a time a fun game meant you wanted to do it all over again I can honestly say….I’ll pass. As for being an ex-champion, the words from the song by Toby Keith come to mind “I ain’t as good as I once was, but Im as good once as I ever was”.

We then moved on from Port Macquarie to Crescent Head whose claim to fame is great surfing and a 6-hole golf course……. up a hill. Mrs Roaming Romaior, champion golfer and the 3 husbands were keen to play. I took one look at the course and thought..yer….nah. Mrs Wandering West Australian was still struggling to get into the caravan after the bowling challenge and also opted out of trekking across an uphill paddock with a big stick chasing a little ball.

They wander home, the men look slightly exhausted, Mrs Roaming Romaior has whooped their butts and yet they are not defeated because later in the afternoon we are heading to that ever exhilarating sport…….Lawn Bowls.

Mrs Wandering West Australian doesn’t join in the afternoon activity as according to her, she’s done a back leg butt muscle or pulled something in that region. I pick up my first ball, lean into the pitch and all at once feel something pop in my back leg…bloody hell I’ve done a hammy and playing lawn bowls no less. I soldier on, finish the games and head to the Friday afternoon meat raffle which is more of a competitive challenge that’s up my alley. 

Thankfully the weather has improved so there will be no more sporting challenges other than the potential for the odd game of golf where I will be volunteering to drive the drinks cart whilst juggling the champagne and bottle of Voltaren.

Embarking on their epic journey the Wandering West Australians, Pauline & Ian and the Roaming Romaiors, Margie & Pete left Perth via Kalgoorlie, picked up their caravans and waited to leave. It had been raining on the Nullabor Plain so the road allowing you to commence crossing the expanse of our rather large country was closed due to flooding, a rare event but they were not deterred. They headed off anyway, the trip was planned and the Wandering West Australian husband was eager to go, on time and on schedule.

Across the flooding plains, they came swearing to leave the rain behind them, glamping here and there, always in search of a fresh oyster and a great view, finally making their way to Mudgee in NSW. Now the Roaming Romaiors had not toured in a caravan before so to have come this far was not a bad effort especially as it had continued along the way to rain. It was on a clear night in Mudgee, something they had been waiting for when Margie & Pete woke to the sound of pounding rain on the van roof. Tossing and turning it had continued for 2 hours. It wasn’t supposed to rain, they couldn’t sleep because it was so loud. Finally, Margie checked Google Weather, because, of course, Google is never wrong and she was sure that there was no rain predicted in Mudgee. There wasn’t. Why then did it seem to be raining so heavily and so hard when Google says it’s a precipitation free night? Pete ventures outside, 2 hours into the rain storm to find that not only was it a clear night it was solely his van that was being pounded by the intense storm. He looks around, and there is a pool of water ankle deep, it’s still pouring but only on his van, this it seems was a lightbulb moment. He wanders to the back of the van to find that the hose has disconnected and is showering them with their major downpour.

Two hours of waiting for the rain to stop, 15 minutes of Margie Googling the weather to find that a hose connection had broken loose sent the Wandering West Australians in the van next door into fits of laughter upon hearing their wet and sleepless tale only to be silenced by the Roaming Romaiors who stated that it was not their fault as Wandering Westie, Ian was the one that had given them the initial hose connection so of course he must take the blame for the 150 litres of water that flooded the park, kept them awake and sent them into a Google frenzy.

They head towards Greens Acre, our home to park and relax for a few days of sun & swimming. Finally, we are all packed, the sun is diminishing and the rain is sprinkling but we head off for the adventure of a lifetime. The first stop Lemon Tree Passage, NSW. As we head to our destination the heavens begin to open again. We pull up, The Husband and I find we are a bit rusty with our set-up as it’s been a while. The Husband is already unhappy with my inability to direct him the four streets across the caravan park as map reading has never been my forte and for some reason, caravan maps send me into a state of panic which then descends into a full-blown argument and we haven’t even left the car yet. We finally aligned the van, I put the side out and turned on the water pump and the hot water service…. it’s not working. No hot water. I angle the tap to the hot water setting, but no, nothing. Stone cold. I envision having to commune with the common people in a shared shower situation, 2 caravan park streets away…not happy Jan. The Husband lifts the bed where all manor of electrical equipment, 2 bottles of vodka, a bottle of gin and an emergency stash of white wine for occasions such as this are stored. I get out the manual, spurred on by the thought of freezing my bits off during my early morning shower.

I YouTube and give The Husband instructions but then realise I’m instructing him on how to turn on the underfloor heating, which in my books is a bonus as we never really knew how it worked, The Husband is not amused. Confounded we continue to look at switches and wiring and vigorously consult the Jayco manual to no avail. We simply can’t figure it out. We decide it’s time to bring in the water king himself, the big guns because even though he has sat in his van during a pretend rainstorm googling the weather, Pete can fix anything. He diligently looks at the switch, it’s on, he goes to the tap and turns it in the opposite direction from how I had placed the tap in the first place and low and behold we have hot water. For the love of god, you can imagine The Husband’s reaction. Over 1 hour of trying to fix the hot water system to find I had turned the tap the wrong way. Being blond on this day did not serve me well and I will not live it down….ever.

Two days of sun and wine we head to our next destination. Old Bar brought with it looming reports of torrential rain. We arrive at our new park amidst the downpour, once again I fail the caravan park map reading. I’ve relayed to The Husband that we are supposed to be on a cement slab, no cement slab, just a soggy, muddy spot of grass, he’s not happy. It was absolutely pouring, we set up, we are by this time drenched, we watch the Wandering West Australians set up. They have also been allotted a grassy knoll. Ian puts his awning out, sets up his chairs, places the sides up and settles in. As we look around we note that other than our 3 vans and one other the park is basically empty, the cement slabs sit in front of us one street across. Finally Ian in a fit of frustration as he is sitting ankle-deep in water in the annex decides that since there is no one using most of the park especially not the cement slabs he will move the van. One problem, he forgot to tell Pauline, he also forgot that she was inside the van. Like a slow motion picture, he jumps into the 4-wheel drive and starts her up just as Pauline is at the sink, she is thrust back screaming whilst my ever helpful Husband screams at me to come outside and watch as the unfolding scene is hilarious with Ian nearly bogging then driving over gutters bouncing Pauline back and forth like a rag doll. All you can hear is a slew of abuse coming from their caravan with Pauline being thrown onto the lounge where she bounces around from one side of the chair to the other. The Husband is in hysterics, the Wandering West Australian Husband is in deep shit and Pauline is angrier than we’ve ever seen her before.

The more we mention it, the more he gets into trouble. The first few days and weeks have been one wet adventure for everyone but the thought of The Wandering West Australian Wife being flung around inside the caravan beats a fake thunderstorm and a blond trying to turn a tap on.

2022 – No heels, no caravanning. It’s been raining here in Camden since Nov 2021, a bout of covid for both The Husband and I and 3 floods have left our caravan high and dry. I guarantee you, the blog will be back the moment the rain stops, the muds subsides and I can swap gumboots for heels.

I normally wake up to The Husband reading the morning news items. Covid statistics abound, his thoughts on overseas travellers, a potential impending war with China and as many bright and happy subjects as you can think of to start your day. I often don’t respond with the interest he feels I should have on all the subjects he’s an expert in at that hour of the day hence, there is nothing like a good caravan park with others to talk to other than me that brings out the part politician, philosopher and car expert, add a campfire and he reaches caravan and camping politically incorrect legend status.

Travelling is where he has come into his own. Add a group of strangers you’ve never met before, a campfire and a wine. He toddles himself over at the end of the day wine in hand either settling into his portable chair or standing with a bunch of unsuspecting tourists and grey nomads. Sometimes I wander over with him but recently I’ve held back knowing that within minutes he will be dispersing the wisdom of the world according the The Husband in every non politically correct way he possibly can. The men all seem to join in dispersing every opinion on everything from farming to Ferrari’s and with more beers, more wine they become a veritable chorus of caravanning crooners.

Not only is he able to hold court in a group setting you can often find him chatting on his way to the showers about the uselessness of the Landcruiser to some poor bugger that owns one. I find showers and set up are normally reserved for car chat, which can leave the unsuspecting other traveller feeling a little disgruntled after The Husband has rattled off the statics as to why their car is not that good. I cringe when he relays the details and pour another wine.

Finally though, we’ve met people to share his opinions on life, government, China, covid and long discussions about who’s car tows better. People come and go and yet on he goes, happy in the knowledge that even just for a few minutes by firelight or on his way to wash of the day, he has a captive audience and funnily enough there are people out there just like him …who knew.

I have a wine in honour of the partners that are held captive by early morning newspaper readers or sitting beside their other halves for long hours captive in the front seat whilst they solve the worlds problems. Cheers

Our caravan park in Bourke was quite beautiful and sat happily on the ever rising Darling River. We decided to take advantage of this and go fishing. Now most everyone in my family fishes. My father packs and packs and prepares weeks ahead even if he’s only off for a couple of days to try and catch the big one. My brothers, nephews and nieces are all keen on throwing in a line so every now and again I have a go.

We packed our rods, chairs and cheese. For those of you that don’t know this is how you catch cod according to an old guy in a pub in Echuca and a couple of guys hauling them in Condobolin along side the man eating mosquitos. They like cheese it’s their thing. Not sure if a block of Black and Gold is suitable but no way was I sharing my blue.

It was quite hot but we settled on the banks with chairs and suitable beverages required to enhance the fishing experience. Other than the 40 thousand flies that came out of no where it was quite peaceful. There was nobody about so we settled in. As we sat in the heat I said to The Husband that I wouldn’t mind getting in. His immediate statement being “DO NOT GO NEAR THE EDGE”. Ho hum the fun police was at it again but then again the huge current and floating logs due to recent floods meant that this may of been advice worth listening to.

I decided that the flies were just to much and the heat was beginning to lesson the joy of fishing. What the hell, there’s nobody about I decided to take my shirt off place it over my Akubra to act as a fly net. There I was in nothing but shorts and a tshirt covered hat. A sight to behold, topless fishing and burning boobs. As we sat continually casting into the river and as usual catching stuff all, I thought I heard voices, not wanting to send anyone into counselling I hastily put my top back on and sat back down to fry.

My feet were starting to itch and they were getting hotter so whilst he wasn’t looking I may have done exactly what he told me not to do….I went near the edge. All of a sudden the mud sunk like quicksand under my feet and down I slid into the river. My thongs stuck like glue I was arse down in the mud unable to stand. The Husband, the gentleman he is proceeded to lecture and laugh at the same time. I hauled myself out, no help from him. Covered from from hips to feet in mud, you’d expect some sympathy……but no. “You’re not getting into the car like that, you’ll have to take off your shorts, dry them off and then shake off the mud.” So there I was standing in only in a g-string, tshirt and Akubra. It’s not like I could get into the river to wash off the mud, the river was running so fast I would of been washed down to Victoria.

So there I stood in all my glory, covered in sludge….and not much else, fine if you’re 28 not 58. I hear a boat. Who the hell would be on a boat in flood waters driving up the river at break neck speed. I grab the shorts and not wanting to bend over to put my shorts on I quickly hold the muddy shorts in front of me less they see me standing with a fishing rod, half naked juggling cheese.

Finally after shaking the mud off, covering the new car in blankets, not for my modesty but god forbid I dirty the car seat. I finish the fishing adventure with no fish, little dignity and a shit load of cheese. I bet my brothers have never fished in their underwear and a hat….just sayin

Banjo Patterson once said “If you know Bourke you know Australia”…..I beg to differ Mr Patterson. Our stay here was instigated by me, we weren’t coming to Bourke but I had visions of visiting the Great Outback, red dirt, rustic buildings, the odd cowboy droving his cattle through the busy thriving town. I find myself sadly shattered as my ideal definitely differs from reality and that of the famous poet.

We arrived at our caravan park, set up and ventured out. Off to the Back o Bourke information centre to arm ourselves with the boundless things to do in Bourke, sadly, our enthusiasm is slightly dampened by our lack of choices. We chose a trip to Mt Oxley to gaze at a romantic sunset across the outback. After a confusing 15 minutes deciphering what directions the tourist guide was actually trying to give us because she seemed a little confused as to how to impart the information on navigation, which is a bit of a worry when your a tourist information person. We pay $11 each to unlock an outback gate at which point in the conversation I hear the words … it’s a dirt road, bit rough but ok. I silently thought to myself …oh god here we go.

I shall explain. The Husband in his infinite wisdom recently sold the trusty Amorok Ute for an Audi Q7 4 wheel drive to tow the Glamper van. It’s like driving a lounge room chair around, so I can say that it’s truely comfortable, looks beautiful, has every gadget a car could have but she’s never been off road…..yet. I silently wait for the swearing. Off we drive into the beyond, through Bourke to begin our outback sunset adventure. There’s not a dog, a car or a person in sight. Oh well maybe because it’s the end of the day.

We drive out and take the turn right..it’s dirt. It’s rough rocky red dirt, the swearing begins. The language increases when the potholes get bigger and the road is rutted. The “I didn’t pay $……….. to have the car bounced all over the place and be shaken the shit out of,” has begun, well there’s still 3/4 of an hour of this to go and it doesn’t look like it’s going to get any better. Pot holes, brain rattling vibration… I try not say anything other than the obligatory “well you can turn back if you like”, this is met with a few more choice words.

We get to the $22 gate lock, I enter the code it’s not working, I put it in one way then the other at which point The Husband alights from the car stating how hard could it be, more swearing. I’ve put the number in back to front so now I’m dyslexic, gate opened. I wait for him to drive through, the lock won’t shut, more swearing. I seem to have failed not only on choice of destination but lock opening and closing 101.

The road from here is worse, rocks, lots of rocks. I can’t help but laugh which apparently is not the done thing. We start at the bottom of the climb, no two way mirrors here, you have to stick your ear out the window and listen. Pity if you are hard of hearing as it’s a shear drop and you wouldn’t want to be the one backing down the plummet to your death track up the hill.

We arrive, the view is stunning, we find a rock, open the bubbles and stare out at miles and miles of flat countryside. We’ve off roaded a triumph in itself if you know The Husband and his undying love for his vehicles, the car is now covered in red dust, which may give him chest palpitations. He’s a serial car washer you see and in the middle of no where there’s not a hose in sight. Sunset done we head back, I once again fail lock opening but pass lock closing. I linger and look at the 20 other locks attached to the thick chain and realise this paddock owning thing must be quite lucrative if your charging everyone who goes through an outback gate 11 bucks a head.

We head back into Bourke, everything is locked and shuttered, there’s no one around and you could roll a cannon though the Main Street. So much for my vision of rugged cowboys, drovers and CWA scones being sold at roadside stalls. There’s not a cow, sheep or dog insight. Banjo must of had more going on back in the day cause buggered if I know what he did to amuse himself. . Thankfully The Husband finds a hose and as he happily washes off the dust I go in search of paddocks for sale, there may not be much to do at the Back o Bourke but obviously locking paddocks is quite lucrative.

It wasn’t until we were driving away from our original destination of Cowra to its outer limits that I realised I may have booked the wrong park. Driving over the river there seemed to be a lovely park nestled on the banks with lush green grass, nice amenities and within walking distance to town. No, not for us. As we continued to drive out of town we came upon a wonky old entrance sign and a house that had seen better days and a park full of dirt. This was home for the next 2 nights. Just us and the fire walking mice.

The brochure described it as rustic, I describe it as mousetopia crossed with a train station. After viewing the amenities which had not been touched since the 1960,s and were covered in vivid pink swans we settled down in what was called on the website ‘the rustic untouched outdoor area’ complete with a fire pit, train station signs, bench seats from train stations, train bits, train lights and 4 bits of wood for a 7 degree evening. The Husband went in search of sticks and bark (the ultimate hunter gatherer).

We noticed the odd scurry across the floor and as the heat started to build the movement became more frenzied. Tiny mice everywhere were coming and going, but instead of leaping from the flames they headed into them. In they would go and out they would come. Some went in but did not come out, would we wake up in the morning and find the mass charred remains of suicidal mini rodents. Some went in one side and came out the other, they were fire walking.

Now if we were home in the city I’d be running screaming from just the sight of a mouse but here in the country we sat fascinated for ages treating it like entertainment. I wonder if the people in the posh park up the road were being treated to a mouse spectacular. I don’t think so.

Gale force winds, snow, worst weather conditions to hit half of Australia, trees are bending, wind is howling…what would you do? Oh that’s right…you’d go Caravanning with Kev.

None to enthusiastic about my impending weekend I get up at 5am to head to our beach house 2 1/2 hrs hrs away where the Husband awaits with the glampervan. Howling winds, trees bending at right angles and birds flying backwards and a balmy 12 degrees, I’m so excited. Normally it’s between -1 and 3 degrees so hey it’s basically summer, why wouldn’t you leave your cosy bed to drive in near cyclonic winds down the coast to our equally warm and cosy beach house only to get in the caravan to go camping 59 minutes from home. Yes that’s right 59 mins.

Now I’m told to be there buy 11 but being a good wife Im there at 9.30, it’s blowing a gale and it’s bloody freezing. The Husband has done the shopping and we start to load the fridge and cupboards and this my friends is where The Balsamic Vinegar incident happens. We leave the odd sauce etc in the cupboard with the slider things from trip to trip. Obviously when towing the caravan in the said winds she was a rockin and a few things had dislodged, now for someone that’s given birth a bottle of leaking balsamic is not a major incident. For The Husband you would of thought it meant we would need to cancel the whole trip…..I start singing Hallelujah in my head. “It’s everywhere” he says, in reality it had leaked on 4 or 5 jars and French onion soup packets. “It’s all over the place, everything has to come out of the cupboards” …well ok what’s the big deal just get a cloth… “nope it’s everywhere, that’s what you get for leaving things in the cupboards” …ok so where else shall I put what’s supposed to be stored in that very cupboard because at this point I know where I’d like to shove the peanut butter, 2 cups of noodles, a couple packets of French onion soup and of course the offending bottle of balsamic. I calmly get get a cloth, I wipe, I clean…..we continue on, crisis averted, shelves repacked. We ring Kev!

Now Kev’s not known for his speed in getting to a job or getting the job done and unless there’s a beer involved everything happens in Kev time. He loves his beer, he loves a meat raffle, he loves the club…. and Sheryl. So when asked what time we are leaving because we are well and truely ready Kev pauses on the phone, “11.. no not 11, 11.30..no make it 12” and I got up a 5 for this. I go off for retail therapy, and worry that if we don’t leave soon it will be beer o’clock and Kev’s focus will be on the 6 o’clock meat raffle at the local….game over.

It’s still whipping up like a mini cyclone, I’m at the shop and my car door gets ripped out of my hands as I try to close it. I arrive back and The Husband has turned the trusty Amorok and glampervan around at the end of the cul de sac. Well I thought, that must of been easy. Apparently not, because when he took it down to the cul de sac to turn it, it was so big and took so many goes to turn her around the old guy at the end of the street, came out of his house asked him would he like a coffee as he looked like he was going to be here awhile…got to love old guy humour.

Kev and Sheryl, arrive with Graham and Carol in tow and we are off, it’s freezing. We head off for our long 59 minute drive. We cross over the bridge to Batemans Bay and the river looks like a surf beach with waves whipping up like a washing machine, can’t wait to go boating. Within a blink of an eye we arrive. The weather has settled. Setting up is now down to a fine art. Carol and Graham on the other hand have hired a cabin as they felt trying to set up a camper van wouldn’t be the smartest of ideas considering the conditions. Real toilet and air conditioning, no camping for them. Boat next to the cabin they are all set. Kev parks his van, it’s his first exploration into Glamping. He commences putting up his annexe. Now I’m no rocket scientist but awing verses winds equals disaster. It’s still freezing when Kev pulls out his wetsuit and states we should all get up and go diving for lobster at 5 am no less. Well let me tell you that if you were to go lobster diving in the dark that in itself spells shark food to me let alone worrying about how you are going to find the bloody things. You’d also be halfway to New Zealand within half an hour. Kev is not daunted, but I rely on the fact that our Kev is not known for his early starts.

We have a couple of drinks, I go to prepare the nibbles and find everyone huddling in the air conditioned cabin, seriously we are supposed to be roughing in the elements. Our plans for a fire are out the window because I don’t think that being the main story on the Channel 9 news for starting a major bushfire is a good idea. What to do….well luckily there’s a local club next door and praise the lord a meat raffle. Kev leaves before everyone else. We donate our money via poker machines and yes the odd meat tray is collected. The Husband and I leave early the rest carry on. We are up and organising breakfast at 8, no sign of Kev, he finally ventures out, “did you go lobster diving Kev” profound silence is met with the realisation that the only sea food we are getting is the smoked salmon The Husband purchased in packet form from Woolies. Kev looks hungover and has forgotten to bring very much actual food.

We all decide to head off to the Markets at Moruya. Nestling on the river it’s a pretty scene from the car, looks a tad windy but we venture on. There are no words to describe how cold it was when we got out of the car but we are being tourists. As we stroll the many stalls, the wind picks up, the cold increases and I’m seriously considering pushing Kev into the river because he choose the worst weekend ever to explore the countryside. Kev at that point is no where to be found, he’s streaked ahead and by the time we have secured two vanilla slices he’s ready to head back to the warmth of the van.

We did manage to get in a bit of sightseeing on the way back with Kev establishing some excellent places to dive for the elusive lobster, Kev’s a planner. We head back, attend to lunch and at a loss for something to do as it’s not exactly conditions fit for any outdoor endeavours. Kev has a brilliant idea….let’s go the club. Now I pass on leaving the warmth of our home away from home, the others head off. Lots of beer and lots of donating money to the economy via the pokies, some of them are non to happy on their return. Graham looses a thousand bucks, Kev’s money is gone and I’m sure so is most of the clubs beer. The Husband has made money so he’s a happier camper.

With the wind still blowing Kev decides to light the outdoor fire. Now Kev does a good fire and it’s soon pumping heat….and blowing hot embers everywhere. Kev is not deterred by the potential catastrophic incident that would come from his fire because we’ve been in drought conditions for god knows how long. No, he soldiers on, beer in hand, we’ve eaten dinner (not by the fire but in the air conditioned cabin). Kev by the fire seated like royalty on his fold up chair that he had to borrow from us because he didn’t bring any, begins to tell us about where he foresees himself travelling in the future. It’s a grand plan for both himself and Sheryl and as we listen to where he wants to go I wonder how far our Kev’s gunna get. He starts his day between 11and 12 and if I calculate the clubs and many meat raffles between home and Sydney it’s going to take a dam long time.

As we wind up our weekend all I can say is, Grey Nomads don’t nomad in the winter where it is bloody freezing and dark by 5 for a reason, they head north for the sun where walking to the bathroom is not an exercise in survival and food can be enjoyed outdoors. The Husband and I head home as Kev heads to the Sunday night meat raffle at the club just 59 minutes up the road.

As I watched the 40 or so people float down The Murray River on various devices such as a big floating unicorn, a green crocodile, someone clinging to a plastic esky complete with beer, the odd noodle and various forms of blow up lounge suites and life jackets, I thought how cool and how Aussie is that, (although I have done this in Canada where the water is somewhat colder and clearer than the muddy Murray). A few people with utes and 4 wheel drives load you up, drive and drop you and your float far up the river, you glide for about half an hour where it’s still as hot as when you started but it was fun.

Another activity that lures you to The Mighty Murray is fishing. Now this is a sport I was raised doing. It’s an elegant sport, it’s a challenging sport, it’s an excuse to get away from your wife and call that a sport. It’s early morning rises and throwing in a line late afternoon. The Husband is not attune to the civilities of the sport so does he do this ….no. He decides to venture out in 42 degree heat, middle of the afternoon to find the perfect fishing spot. The man is hard work I tell you. I have removed the worms from beside the butter in the fridge and without any further thought because my brain is melting in the heat we head off in search of the elusive Murray Cod.

Up then down the river we go until suddenly the perfect green patch appears, someone has actually planted a small grassed area beside the river, swimming here I come, and there’s a rope swing, should be fun. We pull up…shit I’ve forgotten the sun cream, the hats, the aero guard and the water….I check to actually see if I have my swimmer bottoms on because I seem to be losing the plot. I did on the other hand remember the wine and the beer. We commence the set up and I look over and hidden under a tree is a plastic container full of sun cream and aero guard, well at least Im not going home chargrilled.

I pull out my worms and they are looking a little peaked, I decide to give them some water, the edge of the water is green with slime and floating scum, god seriously, there is no way I’m getting in, did I say it was 42 degrees and hot enough to grill a chop on the nearby bike path. I look at the rope swing a little closer, unless I wish the be impaled like chicken on a stick there is no way I’m going to try and launch myself over the tree stump sticking up out of the water, my arse size would slow me up and see to that. So much much for water sports this afternoon.

The Husband grabs his rod, he opens the worm container “did you put water in the worms” “yes, they were looking poorly” I stated, “well worms don’t swim so you’ve drowned them”. This is then followed by a lesson on worms, let me tell you, it’s hot, there’s flies, there’s dirt and he is walking a very thin line. I resolve to google worm care when he is not looking because I’m sure they can swim. I remind him I’m doing him a favour by supporting him in his sporting endeavour and he should keep his lectures on earthworms to a minimum.

He casts his line, the ultimate fisherman, in the tree it goes only to be rescued by walking out onto the long tree stump over water…oh please fall in…”why are you taking pictures” he demands as I watch him balance… please please fall off. He returns from the branch dangling over the water. I thread my poor drowned sickly looking worm onto the hook, he’s non resistive so I think he’s a bit dead. I cast….into the tree it goes, yep if fish could fly I’d be an expert, The Husband puffs up his chest and commences the gloating.

It’s so hot, I’m being hounded by flies and not a bite in sight, Im dehydrating by the second and The Husband yells “got one” ….finally a real Murray Cod, some can live to 100 years old, he reels in his line and much to our dismay it’s a carp, destroyer of rivers and waterways. This does not deter The Husband in fact he’s spurred on even more. I on the other hand have caught nothing more than half a tree, had several ant bites and was wishing I had hired someone to hold one of those big old fashioned fans to stand over me as if I was living in the Deep South. Fish number two is pulled from the river, another carp. At this rate The Husband can at least say he’s saving the environment as he cuts its head of leaving fish guts and the smell of oozing flesh from behind me. Just something you want wafting in the air in over forty degrees.

By this time we had been sitting for 2 hrs, I’m hot, I have worm guts and slimy water on my hands, no hat, no water and a slight case of ..I want to whack him over the head with one of his dead fish, but I’m being supportive. Don’t get me wrong I love fishing, always have thanks to my Dad, but Dad would not fish in temperatures that would melt your breasts off, simple as that. By this time I’m covered in a sarong, have his singlet wrapped around my head, it’s not a good look trust me.

Oh for the love of god he’s casting his line again, “I will just throw this one more time,” now this would be fine if I didn’t know him so well, it goes with the words I will just finish this beer and we’ll go, the man is a sipper I tell you, this could take forever. I start packing up around him. He catches another one, him 3, me none. I will not live this down.

It takes another 20 mins to pack up three things, for him to chat on the phone as if it’s a mild summers morning and not an egg frying on the pavement cooking event. I have not whinged once. We get in the car and head back to the air conditioned glampervan and he says “that was fun wasn’t it”…..little does he know…. ” yes honey that was great.”

Addit….. Google says I didn’t kill the worms

Can worms drown? Worms can survive underwater for several weeks as their skin can absorb oxygen from the water. But they can‘t swim, so they need to be able to get out of the water eventually, otherwise they’ll die…… see you’ve learnt something.

On the road again and as you would know travelling has its hazards. Some make you brake quickly and some nearly get you arrested for the illegal carriage of fruit.

Having lived on the Border of NSW and Victoria as a child I’m well aware of the repercussions of carrying fruit across the border…they stop you and strip you of any offending vegetable or piece of fruit and bin it …. fruit fly eradication achieved and you are on your way. NOT in South Australia.

Now the drive across the Hay plain is as boring as watching bread rise, yes there is the added benefit of there being nothing to look at so counting roadkill becomes exciting, there’s the large semi trailer rollover and a P player who had run off the road because he thinks that straight road means break as many laws as you can, but basically other than that, miles and miles and miles of absolutely nothing.

UNTIL

The border crossing fruit fly station appears … with nonchalance I roll in with The Husband, the little man holding the pointing stick directs us where to go, we pull up thinking this will only take a minute. Car stops, windows roll down, it’s 44 degrees outside but since this will only take a minute it’s no big deal. The Fruit Police peer into the car. “Good Morning” he says “I see you are from NSW” brilliant deduction considering both vehicles have NSW number plates. “Did you see the signs along the way stating that you can’t carry fruit and vegetables into the state of South Australia”…in a very official voice. Our intelligent reply was “sort of” and “yer”.

“I need to inspect your car and your caravan” said the Fat little Fruitfly Policeman. “Fine, whatever” I say. “Are you carrying any fruit in you car”, “no we are not”, “open your glovebox” seriously…we open the glovebox, finds no offending evidence of fruit concealment, he ticks his little sheet. “Are you carrying any fruit or vegetables in your caravan” “yes, in the fridge” I reply, thinking what’s the big deal we will just chuck it in your bin and be off. “Please get out of your vehicle and open the caravan” fine, whatever. We both get out, “open the van and go inside first” bloody hell you’d think he was scanning for illicit substances, with his chest all puffed out. “Open the fridge” and as I did so you would swear he peed himself a little with excitement. “Remove the fruit and vegetables one by one” bloody hell its 44 inside the van and he’s trying to justify his job and trying to make the removal of an avocado into a national incident. “Who’s fruit and vegetables are they.” The Husband relies “hers”, now at the time I didn’t take much notice of the answer. The Fat Fruit controller by now has had me remove an avocado, half a capsicum, 3 tomatoes and to his horror 2 tiny lemons and 3 tiny limes the size of his nuts no doubt, there goes the Margarita’s.

At this point he turns and says that did we realise this was a fineable offence in South Australia and that we would need to make a statement. Are you bloody kidding me. The Husband gets out of the van leaving me with the fat controller. “You are to remove your van from the drive through lane and you are to get your licence from the car” I tell The Husband, who immediately drives the car so far out of the way that the Fat Fruit flypoliceman is running behind. I’m sure this did nothing to ensure I was going to be treated well.

“Follow me” he says in his Fat Contoller official voice, “Why” I say, “because in the state of South Australia we have zero tolerance for offenders”. Bloody hell 10 minutes ago I was counting road kill and now I’m basically under fruit arrest. I am marched behind whilst the Fruit Police holds the offending items in the air as if he has captured a serial killers gun, as he walks past the other 15 Fat Fruit fly Police he lifts them higher so they can all see he has just saved the great state of South Australia from ruination. I’m mortified. On a side note there are three lanes, how many Fat Fruit fly controllers does it take to check for illicit fruit, seriously.

He sits me in an interview room, “licence”, I hand it over “is this still your address” I couldn’t help myself at this point “it’s one of them” I say innocently “what do you mean one of them”, “well I have 2 houses, doesn’t everyone” that was probably not a good move but he was being a pig. He takes out his camera, writes down 3/4 of a capsicum, “do you agree” ..you have got to be kidding, he then photographs the said capsicum, “3 tomatoes, do you agree” I roll my eyes answer the question and he keeps going until all the offending items are catalogued. “This will now be entered into evidence”. Now I know that if you rustle a sheep it’s still a hanging offence in South Australia, I know this because….well that’s for another story, but we are talking fruit, and yes for all you greenies out there I know whatFruit fly can do, BUT, Fruit fly cannot live in the cold,Fruit fly cannot survive in the fridge and these vegetables had been in a goddam fridge for four bloody days.

I digress, he then logs everything the on the official fruit offence form and starts to ask more questions, “what are you going to use these items for” my reply was not the one he wanted..”you can’t be bloody serious”, “just answer the question” he says in his official Fruit fly voice. “To eat”, he writes down, to eat. I wonder what the education standards need to be for this job. “Who owns this fruit? No you don’t have to answer that question you’re husband already dobbed you in” he then chuckles and writes, husband stated fruit and vegetables belong to his wife. At this point I hope the husband has melted into a big pool of liquid in the car.

Next he pulls out approximately 5 laminated pictures of theFruit fly signs I apparently should of paid attention to along the way, he starts the interrogation, I expect him to turn on the hot lights at any moment, he throws them down one by one, “did you see these, did you see this, and this,” oh god seriously you little freak. “Nope, I was reading”… “you were reading”… “that’s what I said wasn’t it”, he scratches this down on the offence form, offender said she was reading.

He puffs up now and states, “this will now be sent to the department for evaluation and after it is evaluated you will be issued with a $345 fine” “you cannot be serious” I say, the Minister for whatever and whatever now lives in the next town and has zero tolerance for fruit carriers he states, seriously is this being filmed for pranked. “Just throw it in the bin” I say, “well prior to January 4th I could have done that and just sent you on your way, but not now, now due to the zero tolerance policy” blah blah blah. I stopped listening. “Are you finished, can I leave now,” “no, I have to get you’re number plates written down on the official form”. I am then marched through Fat Controller headquarters with all eyes upon me, I’m mortified. I didn’t start a fire, I didn’t carry drugs, I didn’t take the Premier of South Australia’s name in vein whoever the idiot may be, I have 5 pieces of refrigerated fruit.

He takes his little clipboard out writes down the number and tells me I am free to go. Well hallelujah, The Husband says, “where were you, I’ve been sitting here for ages?” Well you can imagine how delighted I was to hear of his concern for my welfare, NOT. I relay my story to him, I say how the man was not very nice, The Husband then tells me it might have had something to do with him telling The Fat Fruit fly Officer to F… off as he got out of the van. Once again stabbing him in the head is a real possibility.

What we should of done when we pulled up and were told that we were offenders was this, we should of backed up stopped just before the border line, got out the bread and had a tomato, capsicum and avocado sandwich and poured ourselves a margarita with the limes and lemon whilst sitting in front of the trusty glampervan and toasted them from afar.

Now, I do have the right of appeal before I am handed down my fine and you can imagine what I’m going to write………..