Around Australia on a Bolwell Scooter

Three days later, at Lithgow, in spite of being very selective of tent placement, in the early afternoon the heaven's opened and a deluge ensued. I lay in my tent reading, listening to the rain pounding on the tent/tarp, and feeling very self-satisfied until, turning onto my side, I put my hand onto the tent floor to facilitate the turn - and was horrified to find myself once again surrounded by wetness. I watched the water rise. I hastily unzipped the tent flap and carried my sodden pannier bags to the camp kitchen, then returned for further loose bits and pieces. I was seized by a fit of giggles. When I returned to the tent for my bedding, my mattress was actually floating! My giggles turned to laughter.

Hair and clothes plastered to my body I stood in the downpour and laughed till tears joined the rain running down my face. The downpour was so heavy the earth was not absorbing the water - flat land was flooding. I abandoned the tent to the elements and booked into a cabin for the night. The joys of camping! Crossing the Blue Mountains - drizzle and mist conspired to prevent me seeing any of the anticipated views - I stopped in Wollongong to meet Dave and Peter at The Scooter Shop and was later interviewed by a reporter from the local paper.

I've spent the past six days in Sydney, warm and dry, camping in a caravan park at Dural, NW of the city centre. Gypsy is having a rest - under shelter - while I use local transport on my sightseeing excursions. The weatherman is predicting rain in the area so it'll soon be time to move on, north towards Queensland. En route to Sydney I met Joanne and Andrew, fifty-something and also from Perth. They are going around Australia on recumbent bicycles. They cycle about 60kms a day and camp out wherever they chance to be. If they get rained out there is no alternative of a cabin or other shelter. Softer option or not, I'd rather a scooter than a canoe or bicycle. Viva le Gypsy!

Being already on the north side of the city it didn't take too long to exit Sydney and soon I was in the countryside again. I chose to travel along the Pacific Highway rather than the very busy Sydney-Newcastle Freeway. The road climbs and twists and the occasional views of the Hawkesbury River through the trees had me exclaiming aloud at the beauty of the scenery. I was later told the area through which I rode was part of that devastated by the awful fires of Christmas 2001 but due to an abundance of rain early this year the vegetation has rejuvenated to such an extent that no evidence of the disaster is visible to the casual observer.

The hills are steep and Gypsy is laden. I stopped a couple of times to rest both bike and bum. It was a Sunday and there were many bikes and riders enjoying the winding road. Each one slowed and gave me the thumbs up as they approached - ie. 'you ok?' I signaled back 'yes, fine'. Motorists, on the other hand, sailed past, totally ignoring my standing at the roadside.

Just before Gosford I left the highway and headed inland. After stopping at Singleton for the night - where cows in an adjoining field gathered at the fence to watch me erect my tent - I continued on the New England Highway to Tamworth. That proved a rather disappointing visit. No, I did not expect rows of line dancers in the main street as my eldest daughter rather tongue-in-cheek (and cheekily) suggested. But as the Country and Western 'capital' of Australia, I guess I expected at least a modicum of country and/or western to be obvious - people in checked shirts, denim jeans, akubra hats, riding boots (talk about stereotyping!). There is the large 'golden guitar' at the southern entrance to town but absolutely nothing else to distinguish the place from a hundred other small towns. Maybe I was just feeling tired and negative.

The Oxley Highway over the Great Divide was my chosen route from Tamworth to Port Macquarie. It had been recommended by a delightful old European gentleman I met at the Cowra campsite. I stopped for petrol and to thaw out at Walcha, the highest point on the road. It was freezing. I was told they get knee-high snow in winter.

Port Macquarie has a lovely setting between river and ocean. I wanted to linger but rain was forecast so after two days I moved on up the coast. The terrain was noticeably more 'tropical'. Lots of rivers and creeks; cane fields, banana plantations. I saw evidence of recent heavy rain as I went along but it wasn't until near Coffs Harbour that I finally got caught in a downpour.

After overnighting in a cabin in the lovely village of Broadwater on the Richmond River - too wet to tent it - I awoke to sunshine. Riding alongside cane fields, freshly green, sun sparkling on roadside puddles, was a great way to start the day. It almost, but not totally, compensated for the horrendous volume of traffic roaring impatiently along the highway. I swung inland, on a road leading to Casino. A longer route, via Lismore and Ballina, to Byron Bay, but easier on the nerves!

I only spent a day and a half in Byron. I really didn't enjoy the place. It is a strange mix of yuppie, hippy and surfie cultures and doesn't seem comfortable with itself. I was interviewed by the local newspaper. We'd agreed to meet in a car park at the main beach. The park was full. I was standing next to Gypsy at the far end of the parking lot. A police car came by. A policeman rolled down his window and told me to move. "Why?", I asked. He didn't reply, just pointed to a 'no parking' sign nearby. I was annoyed. After all, I hadn't left the bike parked and wandered off to the beach. I was standing right by it. "I'm just waiting for someone", I said. "They shouldn't be long". He snapped "Move!". I moved to the opposite side of the parking area and waited, expecting a heavy hand to land on my shoulder any moment! The interview and photo session took place in a 'no no' zone! I phoned a friend in Nimbin. "You've chosen a good time to visit", he informed me. "It's Mardi Grass weekend".

Sach lives in a rainforest area on the slopes of a mountain 15 minutes drive from Nimbin. He met me along the road to guide me in. I had to first unload all my bags and gear into his car. I accelerated hard, Gypsy responded and we made it up the very steep driveway. No electricity, no immediate hot water (the generator had to be cranked up for that), a 'throne' in a bush clearing beyond the house (no walls, just the throne embedded in the soil over a long drop), two resident pythons under the house. Wallabies, bandicoots and pademelons visit in the evening, birds sun themselves on the wooden-slatted verandah. It was the start of a very interesting weekend.

We went into Nimbin. The town was crowded with people. Conservatively clad men in trousers and shirts rubbed shoulders with 'feral's' in brightly coloured op.shop specials. Women in flowing 'hippie' skirts chatted to board shorted, tanned surfers. Long hair, red, blue or green coloured hair, dreadlocks, 'Bali' plaits, No.1 shaved heads and bald heads. A group of bikers in leathers. Beads, boas, bandanas and bangles - and bongs! People openly selling 'grass' - people openly smoking the same. A walk up one side of the main street and down the other, breathing deeply, was a cheap high!

The main events field was a muddy quagmire. There were joint rolling competitions with prizes for the most artistic, the speediest roll, the neatest, etc. and, of course, each entry was tested for 'smokability'. There was a bong throwing contest and a Growers Iron Person Event in which contestants had to run from point to point with a bag of fertilizer, then a bucket of water, then run through a lantana hedge to collect their 'crop' and then rush on home - away from pursuing coppers. A very popular event, made even more fun (for the spectators anyway) by the slippery mud underfoot.

Alone at Sacha's house on a weekday I boiled a pot of water on the gas stove to have a sponge-bath. There are lots of windows and no curtains. I felt very strange being naked and so exposed but only two bush turkeys wandered by, completely ignoring me. I left Nimbin via Murwillumbah, with the full intention of bypassing the Gold Coast but somewhere took a wrong turn and next thing I realized I was on a motorway, traffic whizzing by on both sides of me, heading for Surfers Paradise! After setting up home at a caravan park at Main Beach (which incidentally was the most expensive 'camp' to date), I phoned a family friend who now lives close by. We met later in the day and Melissa 'shouted' me dinner. The wall-to-wall highrise buildings along the 'strip' sent a shudder through me and I hoped the WA coast would never reach that state of 'development'. And yet, a few years previous, my eldest daughter, Sharon, her husband Darron and their son, Joshua, had immensely enjoyed a Gold Coast package holiday, as do thousands of people each year. Individual preferences!

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