Travels with George

by Vivien Fallows

  Cape Naturaliste lighthouse… seemed way too small to undertake its designated task

  Due to its geographical and geological location, a lighthouse of only 20 metres in height was all that was required to warn passing shipping of the dangerous reefs and currents along this stretch of the coast. Built from local limestone and commissioned in 1904, the original lens is still in use. Nearby the keepers cottages act as a reminder of how isolated the keepers and their families must have felt. Climbing to the top of the lighthouse, I walked the 360 degrees around the balcony looking seaward to the Indian Ocean, then along the magnificent stretch of the Geographe Bay coast, and back across the Leeuwin-Naturaliste National Park. My ponderings about where I had been and where I might be headed were conducted to the whoomph of waves breaking down below. My memory is too wonky to recall all the lighthouses I have clambered up, which is a pity, as I should have jotted the names down as an aide-mémoire for my old age.

  Next stop on my itinerary was Busselton, where I had planned to spend the night but the town looked, I thought, rather too commercialised. Or perhaps it was just the change of tempo I found unsettling: there were a lot of people… and there hadn’t been for the last few days. Feeling I might have done Bussleton an injustice, my research after the event implied that the town was one of Western Australia’s favourite tourist spots…what, I wonder, had I missed?

  What I hadn’t missed, nor could I, was the jetty – which is the major draw to the town, but somehow I didn’t register this fact even though I wandered along its length, accompanied by some overly large seagulls. It is the longest wooden jetty in the southern hemisphere stretching almost 2km out to sea. Construction began in 1865 on a more meagre scale, but as the port area became silted and the shipping size increased, the original structure was extended. The last expansion in the 1960s took it to its current length. Once a busy port, the ships docking at Busselton took on board the produce grown in the Wheatbelt area and livestock reared and grazed in the region. The bay also attracted whalers which moored alongside the jetty to take on supplies. In 1972 the jetty was closed to shipping and, without ongoing maintenance, the wooden structure began to fall into disrepair.

  In 1978, cyclone Alby caused further destruction and this historic landmark was in danger of total collapse. As is so often the case, a group of dedicated volunteers rallied round and started fundraising to save the historic structure, which, thanks to their efforts has now become a key tourist attraction. The history is fascinating, but the structure didn’t lure me like the lighthouses. Okay, if I didn’t register the jetty as being a major tourist attraction, I knew I would long remember it for accommodating those large and aggressive seagulls which glared at me with red-rimmed beady eyes. I have no idea what they were thinking, but knew that it was something sinister. For once, food was not involved in this avian stand-off.

  … They glared at me with red-rimmed beady eyes…

  Bidding farewell to the red-eyed gulls, on I went to Mandurah. Arriving at my destination at about six in the evening, it was therefore beer time… which I glugged down overlooking the Peel-Harvey estuary. The harbour is larger than Sydney’s and having turned a geographical corner I had moved out of a temperate zone into a balmy Mediterranean one: the ideal climate for supping ale beside the sea.

  Accommodation proved a bit of a challenge, but I eventually found a room at the Foreshore Motel… which wasn’t on the foreshore. It’s odd what appeals and what doesn’t, because this was truly basic but I really loved my sea-blue room. Yes, it had seen better days but I felt quite snug possibly because the door stuck so fast that you had to heft it open with your shoulder and repeat the action, in reverse, to close it.

  Having mastered the art of ingress and egress, I celebrated by taking myself out for a stroll and an evening meal. Perhaps peopled places have their good points.

  Thursday 11th December: Short journal entries…

  … which I don’t think should be interpreted as traveller fatigue, more likely to be writer fatigue as my entries fizzle out between Mandurah and Perth. I hadn’t quite blown in from the back of beyond, but where a day or so ago I had been gazing at tingles and tuarts, now I was negotiating traffic and surrounded by buildings. Where once there had been wheat-fields in my line of vision, now there was a ribbon of development running northwards towards Perth. And as soon as I reached Fremantle, I had seen it before.

  The only words I did jot down today were: ‘Trip up the Murray River – accompanied by a small pod of dolphins.’

  I regret I can’t embellish this scanty record.

  Friday 12th December: Perth is in my sights, via…

  Rockingham and Fremantle, where I visit the excellent Shipwrecks Museum…

  Again, the brevity of the note begs an explanation… but none is forthcoming. We could both, you and I, Google the Shipwrecks Museum, but that would seem like cheating. All I can assume is that ‘excellent’ is the correct adjective and leave it at that.

  Back in the city, I had to intentionally part with the Commodore and to unintentionally part with Winifred Atwell (would I ever have played her again?)

  With 3057km clocked up (which translates to just 100 short of 2,000 miles) I felt quite emotional that another road odyssey was over, so cheered myself up with a carrot, ginger, celery and apple juice, my favourite pick-me-up concoction.

  Successfully negotiating the steps, George and I received a “Welcome back to Sullivans Hotel” from a beaming receptionist and I said a familiar “hello again” to their much used, much needed laundry room.

  Saturday 13th December: day at leisure

  Five days to go before I head over to Sydney, but today I am just going to wander around this lovely city and relax before I get ready for tomorrow’s trip to Broome. Met a couple at breakfast from East Wittering, a town close to my English home: small world!

  Pottering back into the centre of Perth, I strolled past a beauty parlour and had one of those bizarre ‘well, why not?’ moments. After the dust of the last few days, the perfumed air of the salon seemed inviting (had I already forgotten the heady eucalypt-laden air of the Margaret River area?) So in I went to have a relaxing facial, which relaxed me for all of ten minutes before I had my eyelashes tinted. Why? I had never had them tinted before. They’re short, sparse and hardly worth spending money on. But I did – and I won’t be having them tinted again. I don’t suffer from claustrophobia, but lying back being told not to open your eyes… under any circumstances… whilst you listen to doors softly opening and closing and hear voices whispering…well, it’s strangely unnerving. I could feel sweat trickling down my cleavage as I sat trapped in a plastic chair and unable to see what was happening around me. There was nothing relaxing about this experience. And it undid all the good work of the facial. As makeovers go, that’s as extreme as I ever want to experience. Brrr…

  Treatment over, I paid and scuttled out faster than a scuttling centipede, and sought solace in a cup of coffee. Dashing into the coffee shop loo, I peered in the mirror where two red-rimmed eyes blinked back at me. The Busselton gulls would have welcomed me as one of their own. Sexily batting my eyelashes at my reflection in an imagined ‘come-hither’ fashion, I realised that they looked not one jot different from their appearance at breakfast. What an experience. Not to be repeated… but at least it wasn’t a tattoo… actually, perhaps a tiny one would have been more exciting. I’m sure the tattoo artists have seen wobbly skin before. Next time…?

  Broome and Derby

  Sunday 14th December to Wednesday 17th December: remote places I just had to see

  The following morning, I made a bleary eyed return to Perth airport for a flight north to Broome, back to the land of red sand. Arriving at tiny Broome airport I knew it had been a good decision to tack on this extra trip: I had come so far and seen so much, but this I felt certain would be utterly different. I made my way to the Seashells Resort, where I stayed for f
our nights. I think the very small swimming pool made it a ‘resort’. On checking in, I was a little bit alarmed when the receptionist cheerily told me about a break-in that had recently taken place in one of the rooms, even though the patio door through which the man had entered had been firmly locked shut. “Thank you” I said and after that spent four fairly sleepless nights in a room lit up like Blackpool.

  Now Broome is another of the world’s laid-back, flip-flop destinations so, unsurprisingly, much time was spent flip-flopping around and swimming. Admittedly all this idleness was interspersed with activity. However, to reduce the tedium of describing yet another wallow in glorious water, I have lumped together the more journalistic highlights… beginning with…

  … a sunset camel trek along Cable Beach – I know it’s a very touristy thing to do, but I really enjoy sitting on top of a disdainful dromedary as it lurches along rhythmically, giving its passenger a sort of pilates workout as you sway in time to its steady footfall. Unfortunately, feral camels are a bit of a problem, so perhaps a life spent plodding up and down a sandy beach with tourists on your back is better than being hunted down for meat. They are also good water diviners, but I guess only a few beasts are lucky enough to be ‘hired’ for that particular skill. The white sand of Cable Beach stretches for 22km and is washed clean every day by Broome’s crystal clear tides, which rise up to ten metres at a time. As described, Broome is truly a laid-back flip-flop sort of place, and what else could it be with all that sandy loveliness?

  … A touristy thing to do…

  Not far from Broome, in the Kimberley Waterways, saltie crocodiles make their home. Several years ago, a professional hunter and documentary-maker turned conservationist, Malcolm Douglas, rescued half a dozen large prehistoric beasts from the waterways and opened his crocodile park. I paid the park a visit and stood behind some rusty fencing looking at some enormous saltie specimens. A large beast lunged at the fence, seemingly without provocation… which caused the assembled onlookers, me included, to leap backwards as one. The crocs are also farmed… and I had a bit of a problem with that and still do, although I have eaten and enjoyed crocodile meat: a moral conundrum. Since the demise of its founder, the park has since been relocated and has expanded to become the Malcolm Douglas Wilderness Wildlife Park.

  Pre the days of tourists in the 1880s, Broome had been Western Australia’s most profitable pearling region, with divers from Asia undertaking the dangerous work of retrieving the pearl-bearing oysters. Broome still maintains its multicultural legacy with the presence of original shops and stores run by successive generations descended from the 19th-century pearl divers and the communities that they established. I strolled around China Town and visited the Chinese and Japanese cemeteries, where the many hundreds of pearl diver graves bore testament to the danger of their work.

  Continuing the pearl theme, I hired a small red 4WD (all hire cars seem to be red) and drove out to Willie Creek Pearl Farm which is 38km north of Broome. The track down to the farm is red-rutted sand, like corrugated iron, and I was a little concerned that my lovely little 4WD might protest, but it bounced along happily. The tidal flats provide the perfect environment for farmed oysters and cultured pearls: the pearls take between two and three years to grow. The pearl farm arranges tours which include setting out in a teeny weeny tin boat to inspect the oyster beds. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit, but it was so hot: a dry heat unlike the Darwin heat.

  On another day, I drove 220km further north to the remote town of Derby, which is famed for being the gateway to the Windjana Gorge and the Gibb River Road – areas it’s probably best to explore in company. The 700km Gibb River Road runs from Derby through the Kimberley Plateau up to the northern coast at Cambridge Gulf. Built originally as a cattle route, the road draws intrepid tourists keen to explore one of the more isolated regions of Australia. Planning, timing and stamina are fundamental to enjoying a safe journey. Hazards include the route being liable to flooding in the wet season and the surface is mainly sandy dirt, much of it corrugated, and gravel. Having tackled approximately 60kms of this juddering terrain on my pearl trip, I can confirm that corrugated surfaces are not good if you suffer from a bad back… and are possibly liable to give you one if you don’t.

  Driving into Derby, I proceeded to drive the wrong way down the town’s very public dual carriage way. Surely this town was way too small for such traffic sophistication but no one seemed at all bothered by my decision to ignore the road signs. The one main road leads right down to the water… and that’s the second of Derby’s claims to fame. Unlike Broome, the tidal difference here can exceed a staggering 12 metres and the six hourly surge of water is joined by the silty outflow of the Fitzroy River – which explained the very muddy mud flats I was standing looking at. I had driven all this way to gaze across gloppy mud. And I didn’t even see a mud crab or crocodile, both of which patrol the area. Predictably, I did venture for a kilometre or two along the Gibb River Road: result!

  On the journey up from Broome, I had stopped to photograph the 1,000–1,500-year-old Prison Boab tree, all of fourteen metres in circumference. At the end of the 19th century, the hollow trunk was used to house prisoners overnight before they walked the final part of their journey into Derby. Today it is a sacred Aboriginal site (well I guess it was in the 19th century and way before that).

  On my journey back down to Broome, I felt as if I was in the American mid-west being chased by a twister. Bowling merrily along I became aware of a drop in the light level and just glanced skywards – nothing up a head, but a peek over my shoulder revealed that I was being chased by storm clouds – large threatening grey skyscraper versions. The memory of them bearing down on me still provokes a small mental shudder. I was happily driving through remote sandy nothingness and hadn’t been paying attention to the dipping fuel gauge, and when I did notice the dial tickling empty – there seemed to be no sign of human life anywhere, just me and those towering clouds for company. Glancing in my rear view mirror the clouds appeared to grow in a way that I only thought possible when looking at a film played at double-speed. The clouds moved menacingly from behind to beside me, they seemed within touching distance but realistically must have been a few miles over to my left. The way they seemed to sweep the ground as they advanced, was heart-poundingly spectacular.

  Just as I was beginning to wonder how strong the accompanying wind might be when joy of joys, I arrived at a petrol station sitting all alone apart from an array of rickety outbuildings. As I pulled up I noticed that everything was painted green – the buildings, the pumps, the few tables and chairs, and the guy who came out to greet me was clad in green overalls. I felt as if I’d strayed on to a David Lynch film set. If I was surprised to see a petrol station, and a unique one at that, the overalled chap didn’t seem too startled to see lone me. His small talk stretched no further than guessing my destination and asking if I’d like some tea. He filled up the car’s obviously small tank whilst I took shelter with a mug of (non-green) tea and watched as the storm swept swiftly and majestically on its way. When my ‘hero’ announced that the storm had passed, I continued my journey… thankfully and uneventfully.

  Moral of the tale, in order to maintain an even blood pressure, keep an eye on the fuel gauge and fill up sooner rather than later. And remember, small vehicles usually have small petrol tanks. Not the sort of mistakes to make for someone who is toying with the idea of returning one day to drive the Gibb River Road.

  Safely back at Seashells Resort, I reflected that although my time in Broome and Derby had been relatively short, I had found this stretch of the Western Australian coastline hypnotically beguiling and as anticipated, ‘utterly different’. It is hard to put into words the appeal of immense stretches of sandy nothingness but it seems so appropriate and right that an oyster should take a grain of that sand and turn it into a pearl. Although, after my trip to Willie Creek I think the grain of sand in a cultured pearl is something of a romantic
misnomer, but an invading technician with a manufactured bead or a bit of muscle shell, doesn’t quite conjure up images of Bizet’s The Pearl Fishers.

  Now the big question… will I ever again stand on that little piece of Australian coastline? I would so like to think that one day I might return. I feel certain that whatever happens, I will always hear the beckoning call of Broome’s gentle lapping waves and want to dabble my toes one more time. It was the perfect place to end my solo, but somehow never alone, travels. Nothing I had done had been overly dramatic, but it had all been wonderful and was certainly my very own adventure.

  Journey’s End

  Thursday 18th December: back down to Perth and off to Sydney

  My last solo day was entirely taken up with flying, first down to Perth and then after a couple of hours lolling around Perth airport with little to do it was off to Sydney where I was reunited with my family in time for Christmas – an emotional ending to a really wonderful Top End and Western Australia trip.

  I think I have now joined up many of the major dots linking the cities and iconic sights, which are scattered around and across Australia. Of course, there is still much more to see and experience in this enormous and diverse country but I feel privileged to have experienced as much as I have. Inspired by all that I have learnt about the oral traditions of the indigenous people, should the opportunity to undertake another Australian journey ever arise, I would certainly view the landscape through more enlightened eyes. Queensland and the Daintree Rainforest beckon… so who knows?