The ferryman at Bomba Point advises us to not cross the river but rather take a shortcut through the Myall Lakes National Park. The dirt track is an old mining road, closed to traffic but according to the ferryman passable by bike. It will make our route shorter and less hilly. We cross the river anyway because there is a shop on the other side and even if we take the shortcut, we'll need to buy some food. After our shoppings we return to the ferry and meet a young Canadian guy. He is 18 years, has been working for a month in Sidney as a stage builder at the open air opera Aida. It is being performed in the Sidney Harbour, we had almost gone to see it but in the end decided not to. He then bought a bicycle to bike to friends in Brisbane. He is a lovely and charming kid, totally unprepared, wearing jeans, a leather cowboy hat and the typical Aussie boots ("They are so great!"), cycling on a road bike with a backpack tied on a small rack and a huge guitar strapped on his back. The ferryman has just convinced him also to take the shortcut. So off we go the three of us. The track happens to be rough and we start to wonder whether the shortcut will not actually cost us more time rather than save time. But then, it is beautiful and desolate. The boy is struggling, his gear and outfit definitely not suitable for this kind of roads. He falls behind and after a while we don't see him anymore. He is young and strong, he'll manage, we tell ourselves. But still, somehow we feel a bit responsible and when we sit down for a rest it is a relief to see him showing up again. He is exhausted and desperately begs for some water. I still have a full bottle and offer to fill his with it. "I don't have a bottle", he says "only a wine bottle with some leftover wine..." He hasn't been drinking any water for the last five hours. So I offer he then just drink from my bottle. It takes him only seconds to drink all of it. He is grateful and tells he had been afraid already that he would have to dial 000 and then be rescued by an emergency helicopter. We didn't tell him that would not have worked as the area doesn't have mobile network coverage.
The shortcut - beautiful, desolate and hot
A neighbour at the campground in Laurieton feeds the rainbow lorikeets. Gratefully they shit all over our tent...
In Port Macquarie we go to the visitors information centre to ask about road conditions. We can either take a dirt road or the very busy Pacific Highway. "Unless you are travelling on sturdy mountainbikes, you'll need a lot of spare tyres if you take the dirt road," the man warns us, "It is very rough and bumpy." "I would take it anyway," his female colleague adds, "as you don't want to be on that highway." Not a pleasant prospect and we decide to treat ourselves to a relaxing afternoon in Port Macquarie, postponing a decision about the dilemma till the next morning. We make a boat trip on the Hastings River and enjoy watching playful dolphins, lots of pelicans, ospreys and on the riverside a few grey kangaroos (blackpaws). Next morning we take the dirt road which happens to be the best dirt road we've seen so far, it doesn't even so much as delay our speed. Road maintenance work is just about to be finished and apparently, the visitors information centre has not been informed yet.
Mother dolphin with baby
Maria River Road - best dirt road ever
Crescent Head is famous for surfing, the campground is right on the beach, and it is Eastern holidays. Hence, the campground is extremely ugly, cramped like an Italian campground (or at least the ones in Florence in the 1980s, with tent ropes of different tents intertwined), overprized and without common facilities such as a camp kitchen. I admit, four months ago I would not have considered a camp kitchen a common facility, but nowadays it is quite disappointing if there is none. With wonder we look at the typical Aussie beach camping lifestyle. Big families in enormous constructions that we hardly recognize as tents anymore, with full equipment including large flatscreen TVs, American size fridge and freezers, private toilets, etc. It takes a full day to set up camp or pack again. Then from Crescent Head we bike to Stuarts Point, the campground is lovely situated on a river, the beach is at walking distance but not accessible by car, it is quiet, has a nice camp kitchen, and is half the price as compared to Crescent Head. In the early morning a car is driving around the campground, honking his claxon. Wow, fresh croissants we think! But no, it is a milk car. It seems that for Aussies fresh milk at breakfast is more important than fresh bread.
Campsite on the Crescent Head beach
Campsite at Stuarts Point
We are in Grafton now, away from the coast and tourism. It is quiet country life here. Yesterday we biked through banana plantations and had a rest stop at a fuel station on a hill in the middle of nothing and nowhere. The fuel station is for sale. "I've been here for 12 years, that's enough", the woman explains. We are almost in Brisbane, some five more cycling days. The fact that we are nearing the end of our journey makes us reflecting more often on the past few months. What did we like, what didn't we, would we do it again? In the last few days some people we met have asked whether we are twin sisters. This is very worrying. Apparently, after travelling together for a long period we start to look like eachother. Whoaaa, is it time to go home? No, just time for a new outfit and a good hairdresser, Liesbeth comments.
Do bike sandals qualify?
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