Chapter 1: – Arrival and Beginnings
Bali
to Darwin arrival and first impressions
We landed in Darwin just after three in the
morning, the fluorescent hush of the airport giving everything a clinical
sheen. Immigration officers unpacked my life with meticulous care, a small
performance of vigilance that felt archetypally Australian: precise, unfussy,
thorough. By four, we slipped through customs into a night not yet ready to
yield, our arrival quietly setting the tone for the continent ahead.
Outside, beneath the sodium glow of streetlamps, we
assembled the bikes—hands busy, minds excited—and pedalled toward the city with
the first hints of dawn bruising the horizon. Darwin woke in order: joggers
dashed past us, cyclists whizzed by, and dog walkers ambled along, yet there
was an unspoken rule—no one made eye contact unless prompted. It felt curious at first, a choreography of polite
distance I’d later recognise as its own kind of freedom.
We found refuge at Chilli’s Backpackers—clean
dorms, communal kitchen, a sun-warmed deck and two glittering pools. The price,
though, bit hard: AU$30 for a bed after months of US$10 doubles in Southeast
Asia. I shrugged it off, went to the supermarket next door, and bought the map
that would become our compass: the Stuart Highway. The strong Aussie dollar
sent me back to the ATM; it wouldn’t be the last time.
By twilight, cultural contrast sharpened the edges
of the day. The city breathed ease—bare skin an unremarkable outing, girls
dancing on bar tables in crop tops and shorts, public joy spilling into the
night without apology. Coming from Africa, the Middle East, the Indian
subcontinent, and Southeast Asia, the looseness felt both unconventional and
liberating. At a street-side café, cold beer in hand, I fell into conversation
with a professional rodeo rider, his life threaded with dust and adrenaline. Australia
unfolded like that: surprising, alive, and a touch wild, etching itself into
memory before we’d even left town.
Chapter 2: Southbound on the Stuart
The
Track - Darwin to Adelaide River
We left Darwin late, throats dry from the previous
night's beers, and followed a bicycle path that shadowed the highway through
Paterson. A bike path here felt almost comedic—this vastness hardly crowded—yet
it worked, quietly and without fuss, as if good infrastructure were simply a
birthright.
“The Track” stretched south—2,834 kilometres of
sealed ribbon through the outback, connecting Darwin to Adelaide—and it was a
dream to ride. Wide shoulder. Sparse traffic. Rest areas like commas in the
long sentence of the day. A gentle headwind pinned the heat and, oddly, the
flies, whose abundance puzzled me; there was nothing visible to attract them,
yet they arrived in loyal swarms.
Fifty kilometres in, Ernest’s first Australian
puncture snagged our rhythm. Not long after, a bushfire surged along the
highway shoulder—authorities controlled it, but the sight crackled with menace.
Then, as if to reset the scene, a wallaby bounded across the scrub, a neat
silhouette against the late light.
We rolled into Adelaide River after 124 km, and at
sunset, our shadows stretched and unravelled behind us. The campsite felt like
luck—hot showers, a communal kitchen, and a lawn so green it felt theatrical
under the towering trees. The river kept its secrets; we saw no saltwater
crocodiles, though their reputation saturated the place. This country belongs
to the Kungarakan and Awarai peoples. European names scattered through the
landscape read like annotations of erasure, reminders of ownership ignored, histories
intertwined.
Wartime
Echoes and Outback Kindness
Between Adelaide River and Pine Creek World War II
lingers in quiet ways—memorials, faded campsites, lonely cemeteries, airfields
reclaimed by scrub and silence. The road itself was kind, well-maintained
despite the heat, generous with water points and places to rest. We drank at
Hayes Creek, then wrestled rolling hills and headwinds toward Emerald Springs.
The pesky headwind turned out to be a blessing in disguise as it provided a
cooling breeze and kept the flies at bay. Between Darwin and Katherine, the outback
offered luxury of a different kind: frequent water stops, shady picnic tables,
and camping spots that felt designed for recovery. Pine Creek charmed on
arrival—Lazy Lizard’s grass and showers a minor miracle. Then Ernest’s stove
sputtered and died, the shop and restaurant shut. Hunger sharpened the night
until a bar lady appeared like a guardian, unlocking the adjoining shop so we
could buy Vegemite, crisps, and bread. I hadn’t eaten all day; somehow those
humble ingredients fused into a perfect, salty salvation.
Pine Creek carries the weight of its gold rush. In
the early 1870s, workers digging holes for the Overland Telegraph Line found
gold by accident; twenty years of fever followed, leaving behind a town
stitched with legacy and stories.
Flies,
Coco’s chaos, and the Dreaming
Breakfast was quick—coffee strong enough to stand a
spoon and sandwiches swallowed on the move. The flies swarmed our faces, colonising
nostrils and the corners of our eyes, their persistence turning eating into a sport.
Dry air cracked lips and skin, a reminder that this was only Day Three, and the
track would demand more. We rode uphill in small increments, water breaks cut
short by the relentless buzz.
Ninety odd kilometres later, Katherine gave us
Coco’s Backpackers—cyclists’ discount, chickens skittering about, a building
held together by personality. It was perfect for a rest day and bike triage:
Ernest fixed tent poles, patched tubes, and revived the stove. A local farmer
offered him work rounding up cattle; he declined. Secretly, I wished the offer
had been for me.
This land is a meeting place for Dagoman, Jawoyn,
and Wardaman people. The Dreaming—their cosmology where past, present, and
future tangle—imbues the place with meaning that is felt as much as understood.
Mythic beings shaped land, flora, fauna, and people, leaving a blueprint for
living. The connection to country hummed beneath everything, a low, steady note
I carried with me.
Underground rivers and road camaraderie
Twenty-eight kilometres south, we turned off to the
Cutta Cutta Caves, limestone forming underground cathedrals over millennia. The
science felt secondary to the sensation: cool air, the slick touch of time on
rock. Fifty kilometres later, a rest stop under a massive tree offered sugar
and shade—jelly sweets, quiet, and the small relief of stillness.
Mataranka appeared after 115 km and welcomed us to
Bitter Springs campground. Population: roughly 420. Place of water, gold, and the
Overland Telegraph’s long inheritance.
Larrimah and the Pink Panther Bar
We found the hot spring—a clear, mineral ribbon
through green—and slid into warmth that softened the day’s edges. Breakfast
done, we packed pasta sandwiches thick with generosity; a communal kitchen had
offered leftovers from travellers who practise a quiet culture of sharing.
On the road, caravans and campervans waved us
along, tiny gestures knitting a mobile community in the space between lay-by
and horizon. Whether it was wind, slope, or the bread-and-pasta alchemy, we
arrived in Larrimah, only 80 kilometres away, before three, and pitched tents at
the hotel famous for its Pink Panther bar. We learned about Gorrie
Airstrip—wartime, the longest dirt runway in Australia—and then surrendered the
afternoon to shade while Ernest coaxed his front hub back to dignity.
Bras on the ceiling, snacks at camp
There were no water stops between Larrimah and Daly
Waters, just road collapsing into haze. We punctuated the distance with small
markers: memorials, signs, anything that could be counted and named. Daly
Waters pub did the rest—expensive beer and a ceiling draped in bras,
travellers’ tokens everywhere. The liquor licence dates back to 1893, oldest in
the Territory. In the 1930s, Qantas used Daly Waters as a refuelling stop on
the Singapore leg of its Sydney–London route; I imagined the buzz when a plane
descended on that quiet.
We
pitched the tents a few kilometres away at the Hi-Way Inn amongst wallabies and
parrots. During this time, we met incredibly kind and generous travellers who
invited us to share beer, crab, and other snacks. Their welcoming spirit and
the camaraderie of the motorhome community fostered a sense of belonging,
making us feel part of a friendly, shared adventure.
Ghost Towns and Grey Nomads at Newcastle Waters
Morning arrived with parrots and cockatoos shouting
colour through the trees. The day itself was uneventful. Newcastle Waters sits
like a pause mark on the map—once a gathering point for drovers moving cattle
overland, now a ghost town with an old store and hotel holding the bones of its
story.
Rest areas became social theatres: free, sometimes
with water, often filled with Grey Nomads in campervans. People were friendlier
there, sleeves rolled up for conversation, and nights stretched easily into
shared talk beneath a vast sky.
Renner Springs Reflections
The wind rose overnight, but mainly stayed
crosswise and manageable. Dunmara offered water forty-five kilometres in, and
two motorcyclists jolted the day with their arrival. Beyond that, the road
simplified itself into the ordinary—a repeater station, two cattle grids,
tracks peeling into unknown scrub.
Warumunga country holds water and life around
springs and lagoons. Aboriginal people have lived in Australia for tens of
thousands of years, hunter-gatherers with a profound attachment to place. I
thought about how little evidence they left compared to the waste a single day
of cycling could produce. The contrast shamed me. European colonisation also
shamed me—brutal, arrogant—scarring one of the world’s oldest continuous
cultures. The road is for contemplation as much as distance.
Chapter 3 – Toward Tennant Creek
Tailwinds and Ice Cream Grace
The Stuart felt increasingly like commerce under
the sun—prices pitched high where options were few—and even locals shook their
heads. Yet the riding was easy: flat roads, frequent water, the peculiar
blessing of a tailwind.
Banka Banka appeared sixty-two kilometres down the
line. The camp matron made sure we understood the importance of refilling
water; she was right—it was a gift. Shade and sandwiches followed, albeit under
watchful eyes that suggested we shouldn’t roam far. The outback gathers
characters the way the ocean gathers driftwood.
Fifty kilometres later, a rest stop delivered
luxury: flushing toilets, cold drinking water, and the shock of kindness—an
Australian couple offered ice creams. That cone was pure joy, the taste precise
and unforgettable.
With the wind at our backs, we slid past Three Ways
Junction and into Tennant Creek just before six, and after pedalling almost
170km. The sun gilded the edges of town and arrival felt like relief and
readiness.
Tennant Creek: Legends and Laundry
A day of leisure was spent in Tennant Creek.
Internet devoured time as I uploaded photos and tucked words into place.
Supplies multiplied until my panniers looked ready to burst. Laundry flapped on
lines; the bike and tent took their turn under my hands.
Tennant Creek spins its own legends—one-eyed Jack
Noble and his blind partner, William Weaber—men whose partnership founded
Nobles Nob Mine, which produced astonishing amounts of gold in its day. Small
towns whisper like that: stories tucked into corners, waiting. I love them all.
Devil’s Marbles at Dusk
Wind screamed overnight, and we started late, heads
bowed into a road strung tight with mirage. Then the land changed—huge boulders
stacked like titans in warm light. Devil’s Marbles drew us off the highway,
their presence both playful and solemn.
A cyclist appeared, bound for his own horizon, and
we chatted until the sun pushed us onward. The National Park campsite tempted
us, but water demands ruled the day. We rode the extra ten kilometres to
Wauchope, the sun throwing a crimson finale behind us as a full moon lifted to
the left. A lone dingo trotted across the scene. The outback has a way of
staging its own theatre.
UFO Country and a Pub Full of Stars
Cold tightened its grip overnight; sleeves finally
came out of hiding. Wycliffe Well claims energy lines and UFO fame, the pub
walls thick with clippings and belief. I pitched on grass and kept my eyes on
the sky, wondering whether the sightings owed more to the craft beer than
cosmic visitors.
Wind and rain hammered the tents overnight, so we
stayed—French fries, bottomless coffee, stable internet, and the easy
fellowship of another South African cyclist persuaded to linger. Stories traded
under a bruised sky have their own warmth.
Barrow Creek: A Cold and Dark History
Morning bit hard, the air sharp as the edge of a
blade. Coffee and toast over the fire steadied us, and we waved Clyde off
before tracing the road to Taylor Creek Rest Area for water. A headwind tested
patience the rest of the way to Barrow Creek.
Barrow Creek looks half-forgotten—little in the way
of amenities, a surprisingly welcoming pub—and holds a grim chapter of outback
lore: Peter Falconio and Joanne Lees, a VW Kombi stopped in 2001, a shooting, a
desperate escape, and a body never found. The space feels haunted by what
remains unanswered.
The cold persuaded an early camp. Ernest cooked
pasta; the stars were flawless. We crawled into sleeping bags and let the chill
have the night.
Fruitcake Kindness at the Centre of Australia
We set our sights on Ti Tree, and by 9:00 AM,
Ernest was impressively ready to hit the road, marking an early start for us.
The anticipation of potato salad sparked a spontaneous shopping spree for
potatoes, crisp lettuce, fresh vegetables, and creamy mayonnaise.
As we pitched our tents, as if on cue, a
warm-hearted lady appeared, offering us a slice of her homemade fruitcake—a
delightful pairing with our coffee, reminding us that even in the vast, remote
outback, kindness thrives. The people here, though perhaps a bit eccentric, are
some of the warmest and most welcoming souls you could ever hope to meet.
With our early arrival, I found a sunny spot to
relax while Ernest eagerly prepared our much-anticipated meal. Ti Tree itself
is a tiny settlement, but it boasts a unique claim to fame—the geographical centre
of Australia, nestled near Central Mount Stuart. This area, known as Anmatjere
Country, stretches over a remarkable 4,000 square kilometres and is home to
around 2,000 people, with about 60% speaking Anmatjere as their first language.
It’s a beautiful reminder of the rich tapestry of cultures that enrich this
vast land.
Ti
Tree to Aileron through Prowse Gap
As August
comes to its frosty close, I found it hard to leave the warmth of my tent until
the sun started to cast its golden rays over the land. The short ride from Ti
Tree quickly transformed from the chill of dawn to the promise of adventure.
Just around the corner, vineyards beckoned, and I couldn’t resist splurging on
a lovely bottle of port. After cruising for about 40 kilometres, we hit the
first rest stop of the day, a perfect oasis for refilling water bottles and
savouring delicious potato salad sandwiches.
With the
road stretching ahead, another 20 kilometres zipped by, leading us to the
charmingly tiny Aileron, nestled through the scenic Prowse Gap. Though it was
still early, I couldn’t resist cracking open the port for a sample, a
delightful reward for the journey so far.
As night
fell, Aileron turned into a frosty wonderland. Ernest, ever the culinary
wizard, whipped up some delightful, deep-fried dough balls — paired with a
warming soup that perfectly complemented the richness of the port. Under a
blanket of a billion stars, I huddled in my sleeping bag, marvelling at the
celestial display. Alas, not even the soothing warmth of the port could fend
off the biting cold of the night.
Tropic
of Capricorn
With the
morning sun rising, I reluctantly packed up my chilly campsite and couldn’t
resist snapping a few pictures of the towering 17-meter-tall Anmatjere Man, a
striking figure of local heritage that weighed an astounding 8 tonnes and was
erected back in 2005.
The day
unfolded with a relentless headwind as I cycled onward, feeling the breeze push
against my efforts. Eventually, Ernest took the lead, and I happily tucked in
behind him, drafting and conserving energy. The Tropic of Capricorn Rest Area
soon emerged on the horizon, a welcome spot to finally set up our tent.
As evening
approached, I was pleasantly surprised by the arrival of a motorcyclist from
Germany, who’d embarked on an epic journey nearly mirroring ours since Turkey.
The tales he shared of his travels added an extra spark to the night, making
the adventure feel even more vibrant and connected as we swapped stories
beneath the expansive, starry sky.
Chapter 4 – Alice Springs and the Road to Uluru
Onto Alice Springs
Morning
light revealed the Tropic of Capricorn marker, a quiet monument to latitude and
imagination. Travellers stopped for photographs, their chatter punctuating the
desert silence. We packed quickly, knowing Alice Springs lay just thirty-six
kilometres south—a short ride, but one that carried the weight of anticipation.
The
road climbed gently to 727 metres, the highest point on the Darwin–Adelaide
route. Cresting it felt symbolic, as though the journey itself had tilted
toward new horizons. Alice Springs appeared like an oasis of order: streets,
shops, the promise of showers and dentists. I aired my sleeping bag in the sun,
washed the grit from my clothes, and let the town’s pulse fold me in. After
weeks of outback rhythm, civilisation felt both comforting and strange.
Alice Springs: Teeth, Storms, and a Book for a Rainy
Day
A
crown came loose, sending me to the dentist. AU$180 later, I understood why so
many outback smiles are incomplete. The campsite’s “BBQ” was gas-fired, a
betrayal of the word, though Ernest didn’t mind—his first real meat since South
Africa tasted to him like triumph.
We
resupplied: a new tyre, pedals for Ernest, a bike computer for me. The town
buzzed with travellers, each orbiting their own stories. Alice Springs felt
like a hinge, a place where journeys paused, repaired, and set off again.
Weather
reports promised drama. Rain arrived in sheets, drumming on canvas, turning the
ground to mud. We stayed tent-bound, venturing only to the roadhouse for coffee
and the small miracle of a book swap. I curled into my sleeping bag with
borrowed pages, the storm outside a soundtrack to stillness. Sometimes the road
insists on rest, and the wise thing is to listen.
The
next day, the rain eased, but the wind still bullied the tents. We lingered
another day, caught between impatience and prudence. Supplies were topped up,
bikes checked again, panniers repacked with care. Alice Springs had given us
pause; now it was time to ride south, into the desert’s next chapter.
Parrots and Cockatoos
Birdsong
launched the morning—parrots in unruly colours, cockatoos crested like royalty,
budgies flashing green sparks across the sky. The road south was kind, flat and
steady, and Stuart’s Well appeared like a punctuation mark in the emptiness.
The roadhouse offered dust and a patch of ground; sunset gilded everything in
honey.
Night
brought a sky unpolluted by light. Stars flared like fireworks, shooting across
the black in silent arcs. Signs warned us to keep gear away from the
fence—local horses had a taste for towels and tents. Somewhere, someone had a
Harley with bite marks. The desert has its own humour.
Red Dust and Wild Dogs
Two
rest stops saved the day, between Stuart’s Well and Erldunda, each with water
that felt like grace. Trees thinned, shrubs took over, and Henbury’s meteorite
craters lay forty kilometres off-route, tempting but unreachable. Formed 4,700
years ago when a meteor shattered into fragments, the site whispered of
violence and geology. We rode past, regret tucked into my panniers.
Erldunda
arrived after 110 kilometres with the bustle of a junction: restaurant, pub,
campsite, motel. It is the pivot to Uluru, where red dust deepens, and dingoes
prowl. A sign warned of poisoned bait for “wild dogs,” euphemism masking
cruelty. The outback prefers truth, even when it bites.
Tailwinds & Fruit Cake
Tailwinds
blessed us, carrying us westward in the direction of Uluru. We stopped only for
water and fruitcake with Daryl and Gloria, campervan companions whose kindness
sweetened the day. Rest areas here are simple—shade, bins, sometimes water—but
they gather characters like magnets. We continued biking for about 135
kilometres, then pitched at one, grateful for the small mercies of shelter.
Icy rain and Emus
Rain
hammered the tents overnight, wind tearing at the canvas. Carson, a Taiwanese
cyclist we’d heard about for weeks, appeared like a rumour made flesh. We
hesitated, then rode into icy rain. Curtin Springs greeted us with French fries
and an emu that patrolled like a sentry. I walked faster; it matched pace. I
ran; it ran. Finally, I dove into my tent, Olympic form be damned. Later, I
braved the shop for bread: AU$7 for a loaf, the world’s most expensive
carbohydrates.
On to Yulara
Morning
delivered a rainbow and, mercifully, no emu. The wind, however, did not relent.
We hammered toward Yulara, heads down, jackets flapping like flags. Uluru’s
silhouette rose in the distance, immense and magnetic. By evening, the resort’s
bustle surrounded us—balloons, camel rides, helicopters, brochures promising
adventure. The rock itself waited, silent and sovereign.
Uluru: Awe and an Uneasy Climb
Housekeeping lingered into late morning; then we
rode to Uluru, and I was startled by its enormity. Rising 350 metres above the
desert floor, the base walk is 9.4 kilometres. Even in flat light it commands
the horizon, a mass of presence that reshapes scale and quiet.
We took photos, joked under a cold sky, and
returned with a small stone in the heart: tourists clambered up a sacred site
despite the signs and the stories. Pilgrimage isn’t always reverent. The irony
lingered.
Part 5 – Southward to Adelaide
Campfires
and Argentinian Stories at Curtin Springs
Ernest
delayed departure - first swapping battered tyres, and we left
around midday, reaching Curtin Springs by five. Firewood for sale turned the
evening into ritual—sparks rising into the cool night, beer shared with Rudolfo
from Argentina, now Melbourne-based. Stories folded into the flames, the desert
listening without comment.
Rain,
mud and French fries at Mt Ebenezer
Wind
pressed against us all day, uphill stretches grinding patience thin. We arrived
at Mt Ebenezer after five, French fries tasting like salvation. The roadhouse
buzzed with travellers, each carrying their own fatigue. Night fell heavy, and
we surrendered to sleep.
Rain
thundered at dawn, tents sagging under the weight. We stayed put, venturing
only to the roadhouse for coffee and a corner to write. The storm turned the
world to mud, but inside, stories and warmth carried us through. Sometimes the
road insists on stillness, and the wise thing is to obey.
A
dead straight path through the desert
Clear skies returned, and a
tailwind ushered us along the 60-kilometre stretch to the Stuart Highway
junction at Erldunda. From there, the road beat a dead straight track south
through the desert. An additional 75 kilometres along the Stuart Highway
brought us to Kulgera, sporting a place to pitch a tent at a roadhouse.
However, Kulgera was nothing more than a pub and restaurant, with a population
of barely 40.
Crossing
the border with coffee and cake.
Morning
was icy, the wind sharp. Twenty-two kilometres later, we crossed into South
Australia at a border rest area. Gloria and Daryl reappeared with coffee and
cake, their kindness a feast in miniature. Forty kilometres further, another
rest stop offered water and shade. A campfire invitation sealed the evening,
generosity glowing in the vastness.
Rain
struck at dawn, but we rode anyway. Cold clamped the body, drizzle soaked
everything, and Ernest battled two flats. Wild horses and a giant kangaroo
flashed across the road—strange companions in bad weather. By the time we
reached Marla, 125 kilometres south, shivering and spent, soup and leftover
vetkoek restored humanity. Marla is more service town than destination, but
sometimes that’s enough.
Stars
across the sky – Cadney Homestead
The
road stretched long, the desert unbroken. Cadney Homestead appeared like a
mirage: roadhouse, fuel, food, a patch of ground to pitch tents. The day’s
distance weighed heavily, but the night offered relief—stars scattered across
the sky, silence deep enough to hear your own pulse.
Chapter
6: Opal Dreams and Desert Winds
Blowouts
and freezing weather
The
section between Cadney Homestead and Pootnoura was a short 80 km distance.
Still, it took nearly the entire day as the weather was bleak with low clouds
and a freezing wind. Add being delayed by Ernst having two blow-outs due to his
new tyre tearing along the side wall, and it turned out to be a positively
miserable day.
I stuck
the iPod in my ears and battled on to Pootnoura Rest Area, which had both water
and shelter, and, as it looked like rain, I had my tent up super-fast, and by
super-fast I mean SUPER-FAST, as by then I was pretty good at pitching the tent.
Opals
and Dust – Arriving in Coober Pedy
Morning
began with a battle against the wind, coaxing water to boil for coffee while
canvas flapped and dust swirled. Supplies were low, so despite the stormy
forecast we pressed on.
The
ride was punishing—icy gusts from every angle, progress slowed to barely ten
kilometres an hour. Road trains thundered past, their slipstreams threatening
to throw me off balance. I clung to the bike, teeth gritted, determined not to
be blown into the gravel.
Forty
kilometres north of Coober Pedy, a surprise: the dog fence, a 5,500‑kilometre
barrier stretching across southeastern Australia to keep dingoes out. Soon
after, the landscape transformed into opal country—countless pits and mounds of
earth, scars of relentless digging. Coober Pedy revealed itself as the “Opal
Capital of the World,” a town defined by its subterranean treasures.
Coober
Pedy was unlike anywhere else. Corrugated iron houses lined dusty streets,
eccentric fortune‑seekers wandered in search of opal dreams, and the desert
heat pressed down with ferocity. The solution was ingenious: homes carved into
old mines, underground dwellings where temperatures never rose above 23°C.
The
town carried a cinematic quality—its stark desert had lured filmmakers, and
props from past productions lay scattered like relics. We camped at the Opal
Inn Caravan Park, our days filled with laundry, resupplying, and exploring.
Beneath the surface, Coober Pedy hummed with resilience, a frontier town where
survival demanded invention.
It
was time to leave the idleness behind. The sun returned, the wind softened, and
the road stretched flat and endless. The landscape offered little more than
molehills—optimistic miners still probing for opals.
Before
departure, I tried to withdraw money, but the bank was offline. A roadside sign
reminded us there would be no facilities for the next 254 kilometres. Cash
wouldn’t matter; survival here was measured in water and endurance. Ingomar
Rest Area, when it arrived, was its usual theatre of odd characters and
eccentric travellers, each with stories etched by the road.
Red wine and stories at Bon Bon Rest Area
Another
day, another headwind. The road lay pan‑flat, the countryside unchanged, and
monotony pressed hard. I felt the onset of white‑line fever, hypnotised by the
endless stripe beneath my wheels.
Mercifully,
the distance was short. At Bon Bon Rest Area, we pitched tents to escaped the
wind. Rest areas always gathered remarkable people. Jen, a seventy-year-old
from Adelaide, was driving north to scatter her late husband’s ashes in Darwin.
Her stories were captivating, and with each glass of red wine, they grew more
compelling. The outback is full of such encounters—grief, resilience, and
generosity mingling under the stars.
The
following day, the wind remained relentless, flattening spirits as much as the
landscape. Ernest and I fell silent, not on speaking terms, each locked in
private battle with the elements.
Glendambo
appeared like a necessary punctuation mark. With a population of thirty and an
annual rainfall of just 185 mm, it will never be more than a roadside stop. Yet
it offered what mattered after 90 kilometres in the saddle: a campground, a
motel, a roadhouse, a store. For me, that was enough.
The Dark History of Woomera
In
Glendambo I woke to change – at last. A tailwind lifted us south, carrying us
past vast salt pans until Lake Hart spread before us, brim-full after rains.
The expanse resembled an ocean, dazzling white under the sun.
We
nearly sped past Woomera, so eager were we to finish, but a flat tyre forced a
pause. The town carried a darker history—once headquarters for rocket and
nuclear testing, its legacy marked by suffering among Indigenous communities
exposed to fallout. In the centre, rockets stood on display, their small size
belying their deadly power.
As
we left Woomera for Rangers View Rest Area, 120 km away, salt lakes and dusty
stops lined the way south. At Ironstone Lagoon Rest Area, seventy kilometres
beyond Pimba, we found water—a rare gift. By evening, we reached Ranges View,
where the wind roared like a beast. My tent strained against the gale, and I
half‑believed it might lift me skyward despite my weight. Sleep came fitfully,
the storm rattling canvas and nerves alike.
Chapter
7: The end of the Legendary Stuart Highway
Arrival in Port Augusta
Morning
broke in splendour. Sunlight poured across the land, wind stilled, and
wildflowers carpeted the soil. Stuart’s Desert Pea bloomed in crimson
profusion, a sea of petals stretching to the horizon.
Relief
washed over me as Port Augusta came into view. The Stuart Highway ended here,
its long spine finally complete. Civilisation returned—streets, shops, the hum
of a town. The campsite lay just outside, inexpensive and welcoming, with
facilities that felt luxurious after weeks of dust and wind.
By
morning the wind rose again, but we stayed put. Routine filled the
days—laundry, internet, resupplying. Wandering through town, I stumbled upon an
Aboriginal art display. Dot paintings and Dreamtime stories unfolded in colour
and symbol, a culture layered with meaning far beyond my grasp. Fascination
mingled with humility; the more I learned, the more I realised how much
remained beyond understanding.
Chapter
8: Into the Wind Port Augusta to Adelaide
Encountering Australia’s many rules.
After
two days of leisure and a new bike helmet for me (thanks to the many Aussie
laws), we resumed our quest. The headwind rose like a wall, battering us hour
after hour, trucks and buses buffeting us dangerously close to the edge of the
road. By the time we reached the coastal community of Port Germein, I called it
quits, exhausted and rattled.
The
campground sat opposite the town’s pride—the longest wooden pier in Australia.
It wasn’t cheap, but the kitchen was well-equipped and the showers restorative.
A fellow cyclist, Grant from Perth, was camped nearby, attempting to ride home
from Sydney in just thirty days. His ambition made my own journey feel almost
leisurely.
Port
Germein itself looked forlorn: a scattering of houses, a small hotel, a general
store, a jetty, and the campsite. Yet the town carried its own rhythm—crabbing.
Nets leaned against fences, hung from verandas, and seemed to belong to every
household.
By
morning, the wind eased, though the landscape told its own story—windfarms
spinning steadily, old windmills twisted and broken, evidence of a region
perpetually gust-tossed. Still, the ride was beautiful. Green fields stretched
for miles, dotted with small towns—Waretown, Red Hill, Lake View—each a
punctuation mark in the long sentence of the day.
Snowtown
greeted us with its modest community of 600, 3 churches, a hotel, and a general
grocer. We pitched tents in Centenary Park, a recreation area with manicured
bowling greens, tennis courts, and a football oval that doubled as a cricket
pitch in summer. The town carried a quiet pride, its facilities polished and
orderly, its atmosphere calm.
I
emerged from the tent to find the wind had turned in our favour. The sky was a
perfect blue, the air warm, and the ride glorious as we biked the 90 kilometres
between Snowtown and Dublin. We pedalled past deep green wheat fields and seas
of yellow canola, salt lakes shimmering in the distance, and villages with
names that sounded like stories—Lochiel, Wild Horse Plain, Windsor.
Tiny
Dublin offered a rest area, and we pitched our tents gratefully. Only the next
morning did we notice the discreet “no camping” sign. The road has its own
humour, and sometimes it hides in small print.
Milestones-Reaching Adelaide
On
a breezy but sunny Saturday afternoon, we rode into Adelaide. Another continent
crossed, another city reached. The entry was astonishingly easy—wide roads,
orderly traffic, no honking, no chaos. After months of battling deserts and
winds, Adelaide felt like a gentle embrace.
The
caravan park sat along the banks of the Torrens River, its location beautiful,
its atmosphere quiet. Rules abounded, stripping away spontaneity, and most
people seemed to hide in their mobile homes. I missed the eccentric travellers
of the rest areas, their stories and camaraderie.
Still,
Adelaide was spacious and pleasant, a city of parks, river walks, and cycling
tracks. Very organised and lovely for those who like that. We wandered malls
and river paths, ate pizzas and drank beer at sidewalk cafés, indulged in
chocolates, and blew the budget spectacularly. My worn sandals and tattered
clothes felt out of place in the polished city, but possums visited at night,
black swans floated downriver, and parrots woke us in the morning.
I
bought a new rear hub, which Ernest fitted, though it cost me a set of tyres
for his bike. Plans shifted daily, but by the end of our stay, I had decided: I
would cycle to Melbourne, then fly to South America, beginning the long haul
north in the summer.
Chapter
9: The Road to Melbourne
Adelaide to The Great Ocean Road
At
first, I thought Adelaide was dull, but leaving the city revealed its hidden
beauty. The path climbed over the Adelaide Hills along the Crafers Bikeway,
winding past Stirling, Aldgate, Bridgewater, and Hahndorf—Australia’s oldest
surviving German settlement. Forested slopes and quaint villages made the
morning ride a delight.
By
midday, the weather turned: icy winds, clouds, and drizzle. Mt Barker offered
refuge, its red wine warming against the chill. A South African family, newly
immigrated and still house-hunting, occupied one of the nearby cabins. Their
optimism felt contagious.
The
cold bit hard as we left Mt Baker via secondary roads through Littlehampton,
Nairne, Native Valley, Callington, and Murray Bridge to Tailem Bend. Each
village was picture‑perfect, neat and orderly, with restored stone buildings
that spoke of history. Farmlands stretched wide, horses grazed, and even llamas
appeared, oddly at home.
From
Murray Bridge, the path ran south along the west bank of the Murray River.
Headwinds stripped away humour, leaving me questioning why I was out here at
all. At Jervois, a motor pontoon ferried us across the river to Tailem Bend.
Once the tent was pitched, a hot shower, a glass of red, and a bowl of pasta
restored cheer.
We
paused at “Old Tailem Town,” a pioneer village of 105 structures relocated from
across South Australia—church, school, cinema, bank, shops, railway station—an
authentic tableau of the 1800s.
The
ride to Meningie was windy, but mercifully short. The town, perched on the
shores of Lake Albert, offered vistas of water and sky. At sunset pelicans
drifted past, terns dived for their meal, and the lake glowed. It was so lovely
we stayed another day, resting in the calm.
The
road between Meningie and 42 Mile Crossing traced the Coorong National Park, a
day of joy on the bike. A slight tailwind, wetlands alive with birdlife, and
names that delighted—Policeman’s Point, Salt Creek. At 42 Mile Crossing, where we
pitched tents in a park camp. The water tank was dry, the kitchen swarmed with
bees, flies and mozzies attacked in chorus. Yet, it felt part of the rhythm of
life: ups and downs, irritations folded into the ride.
Loading
up, a magpie dive‑bombed me, declaring I’d overstayed. A strong tailwind
carried us swiftly east, pies at Kingston fortifying us before reaching seaside
Robe.
Camping
by the ocean was bliss. In town, a restaurant served veggie burgers and fries
so enormous they bordered on rude generosity. Along the road, we met Anneke, a
Dutch lady cycling home to the Netherlands. She carried no watch, no odometer,
no companion—only a credit card, passport, and water. She rode by daylight,
slept when dark fell. Her simplicity was inspiring.
I
woke to rain drumming on the tent, steady and unyielding. Ernest surprised me
by packing early, but I refused to budge. The day belonged to drizzle, and I
stayed cocooned.
The
next morning was mercifully dry, though bitterly cold. I dressed for the Arctic
and set off for Millicent, 80 kilometres away. Three Australian cyclists en
route from Adelaide to Sydney crossed our path, their gear enviably polished. I
eyed their bikes with longing.
The
map promised a short ride to Mt Gambier, and a tailwind made it effortless. We
arrived early, but soon the weather turned—drizzle, gusts, freezing air. I
shopped for warmer clothes, surrendering to necessity.
The
following day worsened. I lay wrapped in my tent, listening to wind and rain.
Salvation came in small comforts: a packet of chocolate-coated peanuts, a few
magazines left in the kitchen, endless cups of coffee.
Morning
came with rain and high winds, but clad in new woollies, I braved freezing
weather and biked out of Mt Gambier. The coastal route to Portland wound past
Nelson and through state forests, hills rising and falling under grey skies.
Magpies attacked again—spring in Australia is their season, and cyclists their
favourite target. My helmet proved its worth.
Portland
arrived like mercy. Miserable, I chose a cabin over canvas. Equipped with TV,
microwave, kettle, toaster—it was luxury. Warm, dry, comfortable, we stayed
another day.
Back
on the bike after a day of rest, the weather was kinder. A slight tailwind
carried us the 100-odd kilometres through forests and into historic Port Fairy,
its harbour and old buildings charming. Warrnambool was larger than expected,
with a central campground. The day ended with a hot shower, hot chocolate, and
a muffin—small indulgences that felt grand.
Chapter
10: The Great Ocean Road
Coves, Caves and Arches
Sun
returned at last. We lingered in Warrnambool, then rode the 70 kilometres to
Port Campbell, past dairy farms, cheese factories, and rolling pastures. Black
swans glided across wetlands.
The
road delivered us to the Great Ocean Road, its limestone coast sculpted into
pinnacles, coves, caves, and arches. We stopped often, awed by the drama, snapping
pictures at every turn.
Loch Ard Gorge and the Twelve Apostles
The
day remained sunny, wind light. Loch Ard Gorge and the Twelve Apostles offered
breathtaking views before the road climbed into eucalyptus forests. Lavers Hill,
perched atop the Otway Ranges, is a small settlement in the trees. Glow worms
were rumoured, but the cold kept them hidden.
Descent into the Otways
From
Lavers Hill, the road plunged steeply, speeds topping fifty kilometres an hour,
exhilaration rushing through the descent. The joy was short-lived; the climb
into the Otway National Park demanded effort, winding through dense forest and
fern gullies before releasing us into Apollo Bay.
From
there, the path hugged the coastline, a magnificent stretch of sea and cliffs
leading to Kennett River. We camped across from the beach, a place close to
paradise: koalas in the trees, ducks waddling through camp, colourful birds
flashing overhead. Alan and Heather from England were there too, cycling for
nine months. Remarkably, we had met them years earlier in Kannur, India—a
reunion stitched by the road.
Ernest
cooked a massive pasta dish, too much to finish. By morning, the pot was empty,
the lid discarded under a tree—wildlife had feasted. Then came sorrow: Ernest
learned his mother had passed away. RIP Mrs Markwood.
We
lingered with Alan and Heather, departing only at midday. At last, the sun
warmed the ride, the first in weeks. The coastline dazzled, the road sweeping
past Lorne and Aireys Inlet, sea and sky in perfect balance. Rain arrived just
as Anglesea rolled into view, timing merciful.
Chapter
11: The Final Stretch
Crossing the Bay - Anglesea to Rosebud
Rather
than cycle via Geelong, we chose novelty: the ferry from Queenscliff across the
mouth of Port Phillip Bay to Sorrento. From there, the road traced the eastern
shore toward Melbourne.
The
ride to Rosebud was effortless, only eighty kilometres; the coast was built up
but pleasant. That evening, I splurged on pizzas from the shop across the way—a
welcome break from pasta, indulgent and satisfying.
Melbourne Arrival
I
worried about cycling into a big city—traffic, chaos, the hunt for budget digs.
But Melbourne surprised me. It was Sunday, the route into town had a bicycle
lane, and the ride felt orderly, even welcoming. Crossing the Yarra River, the
path delivered us directly into the CBD.
King
Street Backpackers offered neat rooms, a kitchen, and a communal area. Prices
stung, as everywhere in Australia, but comfort mattered more. Yet the locked
doors and closed spaces left me feeling claustrophobic, missing the eccentric
openness of roadside camps.
Logistics
consumed the next day: securing a bike box, arranging a taxi, booking flights.
The next day, I would leave Australia behind.
I
hadn’t seen half the country, yet the journey had been rich. I hadn’t wanted to
come at first, but Australia had surprised me—its landscapes, its people, its
rhythm. The experience confirmed a lesson: never judge a country before
visiting. Media and hearsay distort; cycling offers only fragments, shaped by
weather, mood, and company. My reports are not factual histories; they are only
impressions stitched from the road.
Farewell
Australia
Dust Behind, Horizons Ahead
Melbourne - Cape Town - Ushuaia
The
flight was long and tedious, carrying me from one end of the world to another.
In those days, the Melbourne–Buenos Aires route refuelled in Cape Town, and
passengers could break the journey at no extra cost. I seized the chance.
Family
greeted me with wine and pizzas—some rituals never change. The time passed
quickly, filled with familiar comforts. Then came another early morning flight:
nine hours and twenty minutes to Buenos Aires, followed by three and a half
more to Ushuaia. The journey was smooth, save for an overweight baggage fee on
the final leg.
South
America awaited.
