Caravanning in Heels is currently resting in preparation for our next journey

A short lesson in turning on the air conditioner in the Jayco Outback. For those of you that are off Glamping in all weather conditions, I thought I would give you some invaluable information regarding the operational use of your device.

We arrived at our destination as you would imagine hot and bothered in the 35+ degree heat after driving 40 gozillion miles out of our way (see previous post on how to not use a GPS) and then setting up we had worked up a sweat. This was the first time I had used the cooling system to cool the glamper van. Our previous trips had been temperature controlled by The Husband in the cooler months. Did I really take any notice…no.

The temperature outside is hot enough to warrant the turning on of the cooling device. As per the photo attached for visual instruction I pushed the turn on button, ok so the photo doesn’t show this bit so just use your imagination. Also located on the module is an M button, ok so this is also not included in the instructional photo so once again you will need to imagine it’s there. How hard can working this thing be. The M stands for mode, I push the relevant buttons and bring up the sunshine, which is actually in the instructional photo. I don’t wish to bring any disrespect to all those other woman in the world that share my hair colour, but I feel at this point I need to point out, I’m blond. As I said I push the button, on it turns, I close all the blinds, hatches and toddle off outside to join The Husband and the Bargo Boaters.

Dam it must be hot, the air conditioner on my return is struggling to cool theGlamper van, I open the roof hatches thinking this may help change the oven like conditions. We go to bed leaving it on. I tell you what when I woke up the next morning I realised that it was obviously going to be a hot day because that poor cooling machine was still struggling, it was as hot as The Husbands temper when attempting a 57 point turn after ignoring a “you shouldn’t have driven down there sign, you idiot” I turn her off. I do say to The Husband that I don’t know how we will go Glamping in the outback in the boiling heat when the air conditioner doesn’t really cool well. He gives me a look, you know the one, it means how blond are you, where are we plugging the van into 240 volts in the middle of nowhere to run an air conditioner. I digress.

Great day spent on the water, we return, The Glamper van is hot enough to fry an egg on the floor, I turn on the trusty cooling device for another try, sunshine picture is on, yep I’ve got her going again. We eat, we bubbles, a few hours pass and the dam thing won’t work. Bloody hell I say to The Husband this thing is useless, I turn it off in disgust as I don’t feel like battling with this complex piece of machinery any longer. We spend the night with all the windows open.

Another amazing day, it’s 38 degrees and I say to The Husband that I can’t understand why this thing is not working we will have to take it back to Jayco. He decides to push the turn on button. He looks at me with that look on his face again and says “did you have it on the sunshine setting” “of course I did” what does he think I am a moron. “So you didn’t put it on the icicle setting” “well of course I didn’t it’s the sign for snow which means you use that one to heat, duh.” At this point, he I think he’s thinking I have a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock. “You must be kidding” he says in that tone of voice that makes you want to smother him in his sleep. “The icicle is for cooling, the sunshine is for heating” Oh shit I’d spent the last two days trying to bake us like roast chickens in the metal Glamper van. Needless to say I have now given The Husband ammunition. This ladies and gentlemen is not something you want to do when you spend some of your time berating your husband in a public blog.

So what have we learned from this instructional post.

1. Always read the manual first or YouTube it prior to giving The Husband enough ammunition for a month of Sunday’s.

2. If you are blond, wear your hair colour with pride because you can always use it as an excuse to get out of the dumb things you do.

Having arrived home from work early to join the “I work really hard retired husband” for a 3 day Glamping trip I find the trusty Jayco Outlander is packed with the essentials, heels and bubbles. Its an incredible 40 degrees and I’m wondering why I’m leaving my backyard pool and airconditioning for a weekend of heat and flies. Off we go, another adventure looms.

Backing out of the drive comes with it own issues so if you happen to be around for this painful experience you will hear the musical tones of The Husband yelling “am I gunna hit the pole”, “no you are not going to hit the pole” I yell back. ” Are you sure I’m not gunna to hit the pole,” no you are not going to hit the pole.” He yells “you’re supposed to be watching”, well I am watching, how else could I see if he was going to hit the bloody pole. “How close is that gutter,” “you’re miles away” I yell, “are you sure.” Of course I’m sure I’m bloody looking at it. He’s not happy with this, gets out of the car again to check my work. At this point I establish that he clearly doesn’t know me and how close he’s coming to being stabbed. Back up the driveway he goes, he reverses again “am I gunna hit the pole,” I’m going to hit you with a pole in a minute. We finally make it past the huge electricity pole that was nowhere near the glamper van and glide past the gutter missing it by two bloody feet.

We are off, “do you have the destination” he says, “I do, Mrs Gerwald, (part of The Bargo Boaters whom we are meeting later) and I worked out and drove part of the destination route last week.” She had stated that if we put the park into the GPS it would not give us the proper destination so we worked out a route, no problem, as long as I got to Showground road in Castle Hill I would be on the right track, no issues. I go to put Showground Rd into the GPS but no, The Husband wants me to put the actual address of the park we are heading to, fine, I google and place it into the trusty device. Reminding him again that the way the GPS says to go is wrong according to Mrs G who has been there several times.

We head North, destination Del Rio, Wisemans Ferry, 2 1/2 hours away. It can’t be that hard. When the GPS alerts us to turn left on the freeway we ignore it as I’m following Mrs G’s instructions. The GPS is having a coronary, it tells us to head north then again turn left, but I know where I’m going and we turn off left later down the freeway and head straight, just the way Mrs G said we should, I look down at my phone for one minute and he has turned left instead of going straight ahead……I politely say “this is not the right way,” The Husband says “well that’s the way it’s pointing on the GPS.” Did I not state the GPS would not take us the right way. So now we or on a major road with a shit load of traffic and I’m saying that you’ve got to turn around, he’s not listening instead he’s telling me as he pulls over and says I have to be 100% sure of where we are going, well since I’ve never been to the said park how the hell would I know, I failed training navigation in the Army and led my troops into a kill zone. He will not be detracted, 100% surety is needed, well I explain if he would just turn around I’d be back on track…but no he decides to follow the GPS because we all know that the GPS always gets it right as it’s trying to tell do a u turn on the underground M5 tunnel. As we travel along the road we go over the two roads upon which the annoying voice from the car dashboard told us to go in the first place, it’s peak hour and can someone hand me a Valium.

Suddenly we are in the country. “Well this is nice” I say. The Husband says that we are obviously on the scenic route but we will still get there. There looms ahead the sign for the car ferry on the left, both of us being completely bloody stupid both say, well we can’t go that way because you can’t take the glamper van and the car on a ferry so we completely ignore the pleading of Mr GPS who was saying for god sake turn left and get on the ferry. We continue on for some way, The Husband makes a comment “I know we are on the right track because I came this way with Mr Gerwald (the other half of the Bargo Boaties). Finally, I think, we are on the right track. We start to climb, the scenery is lovely, the roads a bit narrow, but we are managing, some moron comes around the corner at break neck speed and we nearly cop a head on, but we keep going, GPS is saying we are only a 1/2 hr away and the road will take us directly there. There a sign up ahead, actually a picture it has a car and a glamper van with a line through it, underneath the words not suitable for large vehicles. I point this out to The Husband, nope we should be right he states with more confidence than someone should have who has just driven us in a massive square to get where we are now and would of been earlier if we had just thrown my instructions and that of Mrs G in the beginning out the window. We stop in front of some junior religious retreat, the road narrows he makes me get out of the car walk around the blind corner and review the situation past the sign. My decision, NOoooooo. A local pulls up behind, a man, The Husband confers, the local says “if ya can get round the first hair pin bend ya should make it round the second.” Confidence looms as The Husband jumps back in car, his give it a go attitude is promising but the fact that The Man said we will need to put it in 4 wheel drive for the steep decent does not fill me with blind faith. “It’s ok” says The Husband it’s a 4 wheel drive van. Oh god.

Narrow road, dirt, steep, winding, but Mr GPS is saying 15 minutes to your destination, seriously, if you could see the winding picture on the screen you would have had some concerns re our arrival time. We plod on, a woman stops and on narrowly passing us says “are you headed to Del Rio”, “yes” we reply. “Well you will never make it this way, there’s a hair pin bend up ahead that I’ve had to pull at least 20 vans out of, this is followed by another hair pin turn,” the woman we find works at the park and even though the road is great for cars we are not GOING TO FIT. She suggests a driveway up ahead to turn around. I think to ask about the ferry, “of course you can put your car and van on the ferry” or Punt as it is called. You are kidding me. As she is late for a meeting, she heads off. The Husband deep in thought, “I think we shall go it a go” famous last words, “we are only 15 mins away.” Off we trek, our destination is close, why would you pay any attention to someone who drives the road daily, has previously done multiple van rescues of morons that ignored the, don’t even think about driving down there sign.

The road narrows, the said driveway is passed, we move on, a bridge looms, small but could be easily traversed, The Husband suddenly has an epiphany “I don’t wanna risk it”, you can’t be serious, the sign says we are only 12km away. There’s a driveway of sorts and a small patch of grass on the other side ” we will have to turn around.” Well this should cause world war three. In he goes and out I get, and here we go again, “are you watching” “yes I’m watching,” he reverses back, and then forward and then back and then forward, now remember with the car and the glamper van this is not as easy as it sounds, “are you watching” “yes I’m watching” kill me now. He gets out, we are never going to make it, yes we are I say, just keep trying. The back and bloody forwards, turning goes on for several minutes. “We are never going to make it” well, you should not have ignored the sign that clearly said, don’t take the bloody big van past this point, but noooo. Suddenly the car and glamper van are totally across the road, he jumps out of the car leaving the road blocked just after a bend. If anyone comes around the corner they are toast. He starts walking over the bridge and out of sight. Are you stupid, I start yelling, who would’nt if they were encountered with impending disaster, “If someone comes around that corner, they won’t be able to stop.” Nope he’s still scouting or whatever the hell is is doing. I yell again, no need to put this sentence in, use your imagination. He starts to jog back, relaying that we have to try turn around where we are, give me strength. He backs up again this time as he goes forwards realises he is going to hit the you’ve only got 12 km to go sign, does he back her up. No. He gets out and starts try to remove the legal road sign that has probably been there for years and is cemented in, back, forwards, back, forwards the sign won’t budge from the ground. Really I say, this is your solution or words to that effect, at one point he has me joining into this criminal activity. “Get in and back up again, let’s try again” Mr positive is full of doubt but resolves to try again. Out he gets, more trying to utilise brute strength to remove the pole (it’s always about a pole). After many attempts, a 57 point turn, a slightly bent and leaning sign, we have managed to avert disaster, we are on our way and he’s managed once again not to be stabbed.

Off we head, we come past the sign that says, are you stupid I told you, you couldn’t take the huge four wheel drive and 21ft caravan up that road. The GPS has calmed itself down and says “turn left for the ferry” left we turn. As we are getting on the punt the GPS is saying “now take the ferry.” At least at this point we laugh. As we are heading in the direction given to us by the operator of the ferry I turn to The Husband and say “if you had just let me put Showground Road into the GPS we would have been right, now say the words,” what words” he says “the you were right words” hesitantly and begrudgingly he says the the words “you were right,” music to my ears.

2 ferries, 1 bent sign, a 57 point turn, a scenic route, a stiff dead cow in a paddock (yes we saw that too) we finally arrive at our destination 4 1/2 hours later. We begin the ritual of parking and backing of the glamper van. When he parked it the first time I thought it was fine but no, it took The Husband, Mr G and the male teenage Bargo Boater to change the decision into 42 goes at reversing until the group of males were finally satisfied with their work IN THE DARK. Did I say at the beginning Mrs G and I had already worked out the route…..just sayin.

One of the unfortunate events on our trip saw both of us being bitten by sandflies. These nasty kamikaze stinging pilots first made an assault on The Husband at Kepple Sands when he decided that going to the town garage sale was not for him but a hike along the riverbank and climbing the nearby hill was more the thing to do………idiot.

He complained about the horrendous nature of the itching, I admit I had little sympathy, (note to self, always show a suitable amount of sympathy or at the very least feigned interest as it may be of benefit later down the track). He had been munched on like human baked dinner. These nasty little creatures show no mercy and lie in wait for an unsuspecting tourist as the locals build up a resistance over time. The itch is slow to commence, it builds and builds and makes you want to scratch your skin off, but more about that later.

We met a couple of English tourists on our scuba diving trip, omg they both looked like a walking blister, massive red welts from head to toe. They had decided to trek through the mangroves, sandfly heaven, now this is generally stupid on many levels, man eating crocodiles being one.

Whilst staying the night on the Tweed River, we felt we had lucked out, it was an amazing spot, no children, no real people in the park, beautifully kept gardens backing right onto the river…..perfect. Little did we know that as we sipped our wine with friends (locals) that we were being feasted on like people at a smorgasbord, you don’t really need to eat that much but you keep piling it on, well munch away they did.

I felt a slight itch on my wrist, no big deal, obviously eating outdoors later in the night I had been bitten by a mosquito. A light niggle at the ankles when going to bed and the husband states that I may have had the odd sandfly bite as he seemed to have been bitten as well. “Don’t itch them” he says.

Don’t itch are you goddam kidding, it builds and it builds, the itching is horrendous, my arms, my legs, my hands, don’t bloody itch the man is insane. I can’t stand it, I have no miracle cures in the first aid kit. I decide that alcohol will stem the itch, perfume has alcohol, I rummage through the bag and liberally spray myself with this yellow liquid gold. I get back into bed and The Husband who has no appreciation for my genius tells me I “smell like two bit slut”, “I can’t possibly ” I say “it’s Chanel.”

The second night was worse, we had stopped to free camp at the back of a pub and settled in with a bottle of wine which luckily comes with ice. The itch begins, ice will do the trick, I start rubbing myself with ice, as it melts the itch lessons and as I moan in pleasure as the itching reduces and with my legs dripping The Husband has to explain to the woman who is eyeing me strangely that I’m not having a Meg Ryan moment but relieving my bites. We return to the Glampervan and the itching is instant, I’m going insane, The Husband who is about to be clubbed to death tells me that “itching makes it worse.” Well Einstein come up with a better solution you maniac. I revert to my earlier comment about sympathy or at least feigned interest.

Alcohol will fix it. This time I came up with a better solution, Vodka. My reasoning, Vodka doesn’t freeze which makes it pure alcohol. I go in search of what’s left of the cocktail ingredients we had dragged around the country. I find the Lifesaving spirit although rather than straight Vodka it is Rasberry Vodka, this will have to do. I cover myself in it. Well, not only did I smell like a two bit hooker as I had also laid on the Chanel but I now smelt like a homeless drunk with a penchant for raspberries. The Husband feels I’ve finally lost the plot. How when my bites are way worse than his can he not be totally sympathetic, he states his “are just as bad, but he is more mature and in control.” I decide once the itch stops I’m going to smother him with a pillow.

Like the photos they take when trying to sell a house it would be best said that one of our recent stops did not reflect the description tabled on the ever informative, google.

Now it has to be said that not much would compare to the luxury of our Airlie Beach Glamping experience with its sensational palm tree lined tropical swimming pool, amazing weather right on the Barrier Reef so being objective was probably a little challenging.

On arrival for our overnight stay we pull up to what looks like a tin shed, in essence it’s just a small country pub with a big space out the back, it offered power, showers, toilets and meals. Perfect for a quick overnight stay. We go in, pay our $5 for shower use as we are in a drought and water is like gold (I have yet to see the showers), we query wether we will actually fit in the space due to several swags and tents, cars strewn around and the publican assures us we will. She leaves to go out to the camp area and calls out “hey you blokes, move your bloody cars for these nice people”…all eyes on us.

With several manoeuvres and my directions, oh god what is that smell, we back her in. It was like putting the Taj Mahal beside tent city, to say the least, we stood out a bit. The smell at this point was wafting in waves in my direction. I walk around to the door of the glamper van only to find a pair of men’s dirty underwear lying at the entrance. Off to a great start once again, The Husband has not noticed the smell, which is a considerable surprise considering his questionable sensitive nose and stomach, he heaves at the slightest thing, he has noticed the underpants though and using his best AFL kick, punts them so they are now hanging on the wire fence where the dog living next door happily strolls over to sniff them.

I ask The Husband what the falling down donger next to us is and he states ” I think that’s the showers, “showers they cant be showers, it’s feral, it smells and god knows what that is on the floors, needless to say I stick to the luxury of the glamper van. This though is not the stench that continues in waves like an assault on the senses. The cement toilets, this epitome of style built at the back of the pub and is designated by the publican as the ones we use if we need to. I can’t describe the smell, I didn’t bring my gas mask, I resolve to pack it for next time, it goes on the list of what to bring next time now that we are experienced glampers. Written on the toilet lid in black texta is “please keep the lid closed,” this apparently keeps out the snakes looking for a drink, oh god I decide should the need arise to hold on.

All of a sudden a massive rumbling, it’s a train, a very loud very long coal train, the noise is fairly extensive to say the least. Excellent mouldy rotting showers, stinking toilets and the earth shuddering sound of an 80 car train carriage thundering past, Glamping bliss.

Once settled we venture inside to the pub, to say that the people inside are salt of the earth is not in question but seriously when did having teeth go out of fashion. We are told there are no individual meals tonight due to the NRL Grand Final. Everyone “can pay 10 bucks for an all you can eat extravaganza.” I can’t wait for this one as we hand over the cash and I realise the food will come in segments and I will be forced to waste 2 hours of my life that I will never get back watching the most boring game on earth. Now, being a Victorian I follow AFL, the Grand Final had been the day before at the reasonable time of 3 p.m which is a suitable time for a GF. There’s time to BBQ, time to party, get your cocktails on and be in bed at a fairly reasonable hour. Not the league final, it didn’t start till 8 p.m, which meant dinner would be a long and drawn out process.

Now watching the owners of the pub I was surprised to see them drinking, not a big deal you would think but they were not just having a tipple they were sculling Bundy cans like no tomorrow. This should be interesting. The first course arrives, hot dogs, sausages, soggy onions, wings and rolls. There was so much food just not what I was expecting to end our long day of driving, I resolve to chow down on a hotdog.

The game commences, the owners keep drinking. We have sat through 15 mins of the first half when the wife says that she thinks her husband is not enjoying himself and resolves to shut the pub herding us all out the back to watch the TV in the mosquito ridden beer garden. They bring bottles of scotch and bundy and a plastic box of money. We are seated behind the makeshift bar. Half time sees the wife trying to force feed everyone with the second course of wings and potatoes chips. Did I say how close the beer garden is to the cement toilets as another train rages past. At this point the owner says to me “when people ask us is there any road noise I tell em no, I don’t tell em bout the trains, cause they don’t ask.” Well thanks for that bit of information I’m sure trip advisor will eventually herald the reviews from travellers who didn’t find this very amusing. (I’m not one of them as every small business deserves a go.)

The clientele ranged from fisherman sporting a sunglasses tan, a heavily pregnant woman wearing a tracksuit and a 3 sizes to small shirt and thongs, various children, a couple of backpackers and numerous men sporting minimal teeth. As the owners kept drinking the boys commenced pouring their own. The owner suddenly appears with a Ukele and begins to strum, kill me now. You know that if you get up to leave you will be noticed, such was the fate of the backpackers as once they left were discussed in rather raised voices “poor bastards, probably can’t cope cause it ain’t soccer, doesn’t know a lick about league.”

The moment it’s over I very politely take my leave, race to the glamper van….oh no I have to use the loo.

Early starts are not good for the Wandering West Australians more so the wife of the duo with Mr Clarkie not to far behind. I note this because we decide to head to Great Kepple Island for the day which requires us to be up at six am, have the glampervans packed and ready for our next destination and out of our site by 7.30 am. Now when you say six am it seems pretty clear to those of us that have set the time that there is not much room for negotiation….unless of course you are someone who does not like to get out of bed without the ritual of slowly waking up, slowly adjusting to being awake, realising that you are awake and then having a cup of tea bought to her in bed whilst still adjusting to actually being fully awake. So the negotiations begin the night before…

Mrs Clarkie “so what time are we leaving”

Us “7.30”

Mrs Clarkie “and what time do we have to be up again”

Us “6”

Mrs Clarkie “is that really necessary”

Us, “yes”

Mrs Clarkie “how about 6.30”

Us “this is not a negotiation”

Mrs Clarkie “are you sure, couldn’t it be later”

Us “no”

Mrs Clarkie “6.15 should be plenty of time”

Us “not going to happen”

Now smothering someone is not conducive to maintaining a friendship so she’s a very lucky girl. She resolves to get up at the allotted time but is clearly not happy about it.

We are up, on time. We leave the glamper vans hooked up in the car park. We arrive on the island and it’s turquoise blue sea with swaying palms trees. We are looking forward to some swimming, snorkelling and maybe a little exploring. Now back in its day Great Kepple Island was a resort filled with 18 year olds with raging hormones set out to party hard and drink themselves stupid and eventually take home the shirt that stated “I got wrecked on Great Kepple Island.” Not any more. Today it’s filled with a couple of houses, a souvenir shack, a bar and a couple of places to stay.

We head to the shack, have a couple drinks, do a bit of browsing when the husband spies a map of the Island. He advises us not to swim on the perfectly beautiful beach directly in front of us because apparently Monkey Beach has “way better snorkelling”. Ok we say, we commence what we thought would be a quick beach to beach walk where in the how can I kill my husband today stakes I had plenty of time to plan his gruesome death, I’ll tell you why. We started a gentle climb, not to bad at this point, a little difficult as we were wearing thongs at the time, we go up and up, the weather is warm and only Mrs Clarkie had thought to bring water because I at no point thought we would be trekking. We see a sign, yay we are here…negative, the beach track heading downwards which looks ok is NOT the right beach for perfect snorkelling according to The Husband. We continue on with promises of its not to far, “Ive seen the map”.

Now this is no small hill, this is not strolling but climbing, up and up. Now early on Mrs Clarkie and I established we are not a fan of stairs, steep inclines or anything that may bring on a cardiac arrest. We commence the complaining and the questioning. Where actually is the beach as we are climbing up, the higher up the further from the water was a fairly valid comment made by Mrs Clarkie I thought. The Husband who was muttering at this point comments such as “never heard so much whinging” and the reason he’s about to be pushed off a cliff “it’s good for your thighs”… “meaning what” I say. This is hard going and not enjoyable in the least, our thongs are slipping and our tempers are becoming a little frayed.

After climbing for what seems a calf burning 4 hrs we reached a sign, finally here we are, Monkey Beach, we look down. Now if you thought up was bad, down looked death defying with no water insight. I swear to drown him at the end when he says “well you can go back if you want to, you didn’t have to come” During the trip Mr Clarkie had solicitously checked on Mrs Clarkie, not The Husband that would mean admitting defeat. Even when Mr Clarkie pointed out that this part of the island would be windy making snorkelling pointless, The Husband did not agree, because they said the “snorkelling is better here” I decide to power ahead. I liken the decent to a slip n slide. By this time I have heaped a significant amount of abuse at The Husband who by now is way behind me, I can see the sea, I’m hot so this better be worth it.

I emerge from the bush, it’s blowing a gale, the ocean is dark and choppy, I want to kill him. I find a spot, sit on the sand, The Husband emerges, I point out the state of the weather, not one to give in he states that it looks fine to him, we wait for The Clarkies and wait and wait. Oh crap we’ve killed them or they are stuck like mountain goats on the hill. I receive a text message, “can’t make it, turning back, meet on original beach.” I read text to The Husband “Oh well” he states, “we can snorkel then head back” …really… it’s blowing a gale, the water is black and The Clarkies have the snorkel gear…. I commence the climb.

On the way back the bush resounds with the sound of my voice heaping abuse at my still lucky to be alive husband. Finally emerging on my own as I made The Husband walk ahead of me, I find The Husband and The Clarkies cooling off at the original beach, no wind, perfect snorkelling conditions.

The rest of the day on the island is lovely, relaxing. The husband has apologised although reluctantly and The Clarkies have survived.

We catch the boat home, jump into the glamper vans where The Amarok fires into life, The Clarkies Jeep on the other hand is dead, toes up last rights dead. Now if I tell it honestly we also had left the plug thingy, inserted to the glamper van instead of disconnecting it so it’s pure luck that we are not in the same boat with the life sucked out of the battery. The petrol station across the road won’t lend us jumper leads as the last person he gave them too stole them. At this point Mr Clarkie is calling the RACQ. The lady states the guy would be here in 15 mins. Mrs Clarkie queries the address given as Mr Clarkie had mentioned the marina. We were not at the marina we were at Roslyn Bay, yes there were boats but it was no marina. Mr Clarkie states that he gave the right address. Half an hour later our plans of arriving an hour and a half up the road before dark are gone, the $27.99 jumper leads are looking good but rejected by the Clarkster. Mrs Clarkie has asked several times did he give them the right address, Mr Clarkie stands firm (another husband about to bite the dust). After several requests Mr Clarkie resolves to call and when he states to the operator that the last lady said they would be here in 15 they laugh and say “we would never say 15”. Finally the RACQ man calls, he’s lost, did Mr Clarkie say the marina because he can’t find him. Mrs Clarkie is justified should she choose to have the jumper leads attached to his nipples.

We start, we are off. I know that for Mrs Clarkie this hour and a half won’t be easy as she hates driving in the dark and am not surprised to find she sat on her hands the whole way. We hit the pub that we are free camping at, have a good home cooked meal. Mrs Clarkie and I head to the caravans for a shower in the glamper van, I can’t make the pump work, tell my husband off who has remained at the bar and shower in the public showers. Mrs Clarkie notes the low pressure in the shower but gets in, lathers up and the water ceases, she, like I had previously done calls her husband at the bar. Ummmm he’s forgotten to fill the tank there is no water and she has to remove the soap scum with baby wipes. Needless to say both husbands on their return did not fall into the loving arms of their wives. There was a statement written from a wife that said “Tell me again how loudly I loaded the dishwasher while you were watching the football, the detectives will want to know exactly how this went down” There’s a lesson there, just sayin.

When it comes to meeting people who needs a speed dating session when all you really need is a tent, a camper or glamper van to strike up a conversation. Lots of new people to talk to without the commitment of going home with an ugly date at the end.

Backing the glamper van into its allotted spot always brings forth intellectual and stimulating comments before you have even alighted from the vehicle, such as, “she’ll be right mate,” “shit yer, she’ll fit,” “shit she’s big,” ” just backer up mate, now left hand down left hand down, now right, no right mate, now straighten her up, yep she’s beaut” and my personal favourite by an eloquent young mother slurping on a beer from a can, ” she’s fuckin beaud-if-ful, thats me campin dream.” Slurp.

People from all walks of life don’t hesitate to say hello or good morning, they are a wealth of travelling knowledge and are happy to tell you where to go and unlike in the city this is not a bad thing. They all have their camping/travelling preferences. The tent cities created by some travellers rival that of a Saudi Arabian Prince and come complete with full bedroom, seperate kitchen, dinning rooms and take hours and hours to set up. It’s worth the effort to get a chair and bubbles and just sit and watch the architectural extravagance of tent city unfold.

The camper trailer is something else. Something that looks so compact opens out to reveal an entire little house, compartments everywhere hold a bevy of gadgets, but looking at the trailer with the double bed over the top about three feet in the air that required a ladder to get there made me worry that the two eighty years olds would be found one morning on the ground having plummeted to their death on a toilet run.

Everyone is willing to give advice. Recently after having a blockage in the pipes which made the shower fill, it was discovered by the non mechanical husband that my tresses had caused the blockage, well done him. The advice given from the lovely Aldi tent toating ex taxation office employee was to “shave it all off”, she did at 60, just gave herself a number 2. Those of you that know me realise that I’m way to vein to even walk out of the bathroom without makeup let alone embrace my inner bald self.

While sitting on the beach watching the sunset we were joined by the Noosa Nomads, they had been off doing good works, feeding rural farming towns and were now returning home. Whilst enjoying a beach beverage we discussed the R word , apparently nobody in Noosa says the word retired….ever. It’s just not done, they say “are you experiencing life”. Noosaites never discuss what they once did for a living but they ask what you are doing for the community. Well what could I say, the only community support we had offered on our trip was to support the local liquor outlets, it’s better than nothing.

Living next to complete strangers brings out the great Aussie spirit of mateship, the have chat, sit with strangers, share your catch of the day with people you’ve never met and may never see again. So if you are sitting in front of a computer somewhere checking out the dating sites, become a glamper, a camper, a tenter, support a local pub somewhere because real people are bloody hilarious, friendly and fabulously feral.

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We decided to ditch the caravan for a couple of days and head to Fraser Island for a bit of 4 wheel driving. This consisted of us getting up at 5am, getting ready and heading to the car barge by 6.15. Excited as they were to be heading to the Island Mr & Mrs Clarkie are not early risers, more so the female of the duo. Going into a tailspin, Mrs Clarkie decided that getting up so early the next day required her to have a nanna nap that afternoon to try and pre catch up on the 5am wake up time the next day, I do not compute to this kind of logic but whatever floats your boat I say. I do feel that our 8.30 p.m bedtime was taking it a little to far as we are not driving a nursing home on wheels.

We are up, Mrs Clarkie confused and dazed was drip fed her cup of tea and loaded into the car looking like a deer in headlights and barely functioning, the poor girl needs her 8 hrs. To our delight the view across the bay was amazing, Fraser Island here we come. Now it has to be said that The Husband is more used to luxury cars rather than the 4 wheel drive. When he bought it, it caused shock not only to me but our outside circle of friends and family, what the hell was he going to do with it….and then it dawned on me. Wash it. The husband washes cars like it’s a sport, if he states that he is just going to quickly wash a car, I know that I won’t see him for 4 hrs. Then he realised you could carry things in it. Seems logical since it is a Ute, god forbid though if you get it scratched or dirty, you guessed it, wash and a polish it again just for good measure, but I digress.

We loaded ourselves onto the car barge then onto the island. Fraser Island is mostly sand, so driving requires you to let your tyres down to make it easier to drive in the the conditions. Mr Clarkie has a great new gadget that reads the pressure and lets the tyres down, The Husband has a four wheel drive with all the bells and whistles, he pushes the tyre gauge, down they go and you can read the level inside the car. You beaut CB radio is on like real 4 wheel driving professionals and we head off to the beautiful Lake McKenzie, it’s sandy, it rough, it’s fun, I look at The Husbands face, our first call from the Wandering West Australians comes in, “how’s it going” well I say ” The Husband may need a Valium and his blood pressure taken, he’s got that look”, that look where one of his beloved vehicles is about to get dirty, possibly scratched or god forbid slightly dented in any way, thank god Im a nurse, I go over my CPR manoeuvres in my head in case he has a full breakdown.

Upon arrival, Lake McKenzie is magical, pristine, a freshwater heaven. It’s so blue you’d think it was photoshopped, the sand is pure white, the water is different colour blues, well this is what I saw. The Husbands version may be different, upon arrival Lake McKenzie is beautiful, pristine, the sand pure white and the barely there bikini clad women in their 20’s are scattered everywhere like eye candy. The husbands are in tropical g string heaven. Mrs Clarkie and I madly take happy snaps, Mr Clarkie to his absolute delight was asked by a scantily clad breasty young woman to take a photo of her whole group. His day was complete and it was only 10am.

We drag ourselves away for more 4 wheel driving adventure, The Husband has calmed down somewhat, we head to the beach. The beach is miles and miles of perfection, you can drive as far as you like, we eventually stop for lunch. Prawns, champagne, this 4 wheel driving stuff is great. We press on. After spending the day seeing spectacular sights we decide to commence the journey back. Mr Clarkie leads the departure and it takes all of 2 mins to become axel deep in sand. The man ritual begins. The Husband gets out of the car, Mr Clarkie has tried to reverse and she’s in further. The Husband “she’s in deep mate”. Mr Clarkie ” yep, forgot to put the gears into 4 wheel drive”. The Husband ” yep, that’ll do it”. After this intelligent conversation they are joined by another male, he offers to pull them out with a snatch and grab (a tight rope thingy that can, if it snaps kill you; but can drag you from the sand pit) Unfortunately husband 1 & 2 are so busy working out how they are going to dig the car out that they don’t hear him, the man happily retreats to watch their efforts. They start to dig, gather branches to support the wheels (very Crocodile Dundee moment). This doesn’t work, by now we have 2 men in cars watching, 1 man standing watching, 2 husbands alternately digging and collecting sticks when another 2 men rock up and offer to pull them out with a snatch and grab. Great idea except man 1 offered that 20 mins ago. We women sigh loudly as only women can. We are out, I’m driving, miles and miles of bumping and sand and criticism, oh yes the beer drinking back seat driver, talk about needing Valium now, I should of laced his bottle with it…”you’re too close, watch that tree, oh my god the tyres, if this car has scratches it’s because you have no depth perception.” Sometimes you just wanna lean across and stab them in the head.

We made it back, where prior to leaving the next day we had to refill the tyres. The Husband refills his, Mr Clarkie commences refilling his tyres and lo and behold, that new gadget thingy for reducing air pressure had not removed any air at all, he had driven the whole Island on full pressure. Men…. you can’t live without em and you can’t kill em when they behave like idiots. I must admit The Husband and I found a car bumper sticker that said ” I got bogged on Fraser Island” we couldn’t help ourselves and added it to Mr Clarkies bumper.

The trials and tribulations of living in a confined space for any period of time takes some ingenuity and sometimes the ability to be able to bend like a twisty straw. When one is in there 50’s and not as agile as one once was, bending into various positions sometimes presents a problem. This is never more evident when attempting to shave your legs in the Glamping shower. Showering in the glamper van highlights the long debated question “does size matter?

Having ventured into our swimwear as the weather had become somewhat warmer Mrs Clarkie (half of The Wandering West Australians) and I lay like goddesses on the Sunshine Coast sand. This is an important part of the story as it leads to the shocking moment where she realises that she had been to the beach with only partially shaven legs. At this point as she passed on her story I thought as most people would; that there really was no big deal that she had forgotten to shave half of her legs, if the bottom were done at least then we were all good, but no, not only had she not shaved half of her legs she had only shaved the front half of each leg, diligently top to bottom. With the sun shining through the car window she suddenly noted the back half of each leg looked similar to an uncut bushland park. When asked why, she stated there was only enough room in the glamper shower to shave the front and since she had been travelling for awhile, it was cold, there had been no need to parade her legs for public display.

Mrs Clarkie decides to use the public showers to complete the task of thorough hair removal. She loads up with all the necessary equipment and heads off. Amongst her possessions she carried a bottle of Eucalyptus oil because another Wandering West Australian (Connie, Queen of the Oyster shots), had told her to spread a few drops of the disinfectant oil over the shower floor to kill any nasties prior to entering. What she didn’t tell Mrs Clarkie was that stepping onto the surface whilst wearing thongs tends to turn the shower into an ice skating rink, after doing a triple axel worthy of an Olympic skater she manages to steady herself and commence her ablutions.

The problem as we get older is that we tend to go blind over time, hence the need for Mrs Clarkie’s decision to wear her glasses in the shower to ensure that the back half of her legs match the front. Steam and glasses don’t mix.. the large gash at ankle height from the blunt razor she had unwittingly used saw her return from the shower sporting a Norman Gunston like toilet paper piece stuck to her leg to stop the wound from gushing any further.

Now hairless, bleeding, bruised and blind she tells me the whole process was completed in 20 mins…in Clarkie time this is considered quick. In 20 mins I could’ve showered, dressed and had the car serviced, but we are on Clarkie time. Showering in a public place is not my idea of fun, it’s obviously dangerous and the shower heads have a mind of there own, there’s germs lurking around every tinea filled corner. Luckily because size does matter when attending to the complexities of leg shaving in the glamper shower we had an outdoor shower installed, this should give our fellow caravaners a thrill and negate me having to bend like a straw or learn the triple axel.

The challenges of roughing it in the confined space of the glamper van are many, but none so than that of combining the use of the washing machine and the associated responsibilities linked with this ie: getting your smalls dry and attending to your basic beauty regime. Mrs Clarkie (Wandering West Australian) encountered such a problem during her recent morning routine.

Having rolled out of bed at her usual time of “way later than everyone else on the planet and the entire grey nomad community” because she’s on “Clarkie time” (a time associated with another parallel universe where sleeping for 12 hrs is considered normal) she decides that it’s time to put the washing on and ever the multitasker, have a shower as well.

She showers, dresses and loads the washing machine……no sorry, she has a routine and this is the wrong way round. She gently wakes, has a cup of tea in bed bought by the ever attentive Mr Clarkie, ponders her day and slowly rises 2 hrs after most of the park. Washing goes on, she potters (we are supposed to leave at 9.30) tidies the abode. Washing done she hangs the various assortment of underwear around the bathroom. She showers, dresses, dresses again and then dresses again ….it’s a weather thing. Multitasking again she puts on another load of washing and sets up for the blow drying of the recently washed hair and this is where the problem lies.

She commences the task of tarting up her tresses, blow dryer on….this is normally a task accomplished in 10 minutes but the size of the space is limited. All of a sudden a Clarkie minute into the dry, g strings start whizzing past her head like she is in the middle of cyclone, she bangs her arm on the door of the bathroom trying to dry her hair “just like the hairdresser did 3 days ago” we all know that’s an urban myth and never going to happen. The whole process has turned into windstorm with various bits of lace strewn from one end of the bathroom/laundry to the other. Did I say we were supposed to leave at 9.30.

Mr Clarkie, unaware of the storm inside the van calmly settles down to reading the alternative conspiracy ridden news on his iPad as he does everyday while Mrs Clarkie is inside battling the challenges of the day to day glamper. It’s not easy being a modern multitasking woman especially when size is an issue. Did I say we were leaving at 9.30….10 it is then.

The Clarkies