On the road!

It’s 11:00am and I'm in no mood to be travelling. I've just spent the last 2.5 hours at the social services office trying to sort out some form of financial security, given that my last day of work was yesterday. The woman helping me finally let me be on my way, and thank goodness for her support or else I would have been there for hours longer.

It's hot and sweaty and my little air conditioning unit isn't capable of dealing with the intense sun pouring in from the window. Down go the windows. The hot breeze is easier to deal with than the meagre relief provided by the air-con, and I entertain myself with writing new songs and pretending I can sing jazz. I’m driving too fast for other people to hear me, and it’s just as well - for their sakes as well as my own pride.

The scenery changes gradually and before I know it, I'm in rural NSW. Farms, brown grass, dry fields and grazing cows. Dry creek beds only identifiable by the willows still growing there and the white signs declaring their names. I get to wondering about the people whom these places are named after. Grace’s Flat Road; who was Grace? Was it her road? Her flat? An area of land named after her? Or maybe there are some religious associations and Grace wasn’t actually a person at all, but a concept connected to an area of arid land in Southern NSW.

Signs to Gundagai appear, and I’m singing that song without even realising I’ve made the connection. The words are all there, decades after first entering my brain and I’m having fun varying the song to a swing version, a slow version and of course, a kick-your-heels and tap-your-toes Australiana version. Anything to make myself smile and focus on the road. Friends overseas - it's called "Along the Road to Gundagai" and it's an Aussie classic.

By the time I finally pull up to the iconic Dog on the Tuckerbox my stomach is growling. The snacks I brought are long gone and the shade cloth looks like a perfect place to relax with my pre-packed lunch. In my cooler bag, the freezer brick has reached the limits of its use and is leaking a gritty gel over everything. Fortunately the food is in containers - deal with that mess later. There’s a trio of young girls next to me having an in-depth conversation on how often they cry, and as I lay my spread across the table, the rain that’s been threatening for the last hour demonstrates my poor choice of shelter.

The rain is clearly needed here. The lavender displays clumped around the cafe are all dying and the surrounding land looks thirsty. Even the pond around the Dog is empty, but the crinkled, laminated council sign explains that this area is undergoing maintenance. There’s still water in the charity wishing pool and a tiny handful of coins sitting at the bottom, as is always the case with these places. There’s a sign behind the cafe warning of snakes and behind the outdoor tables is a little sculpture display. It’s not open to the public, but you can easily see the metal weldings of a farmer, a tractor, and a horse clopping along with a wagon attached. It’s quaint and hard to tell if it’s a tourist display or an abandoned artistic concept. I’m sure the answer is around here, but the cafe is closing for the day and my curiosity doesn’t extend that far. I’m getting wet, and the ants are starting to swarm over the crumbs I’ve left behind. Back on the road, over halfway now.

The forecast in Wodonga is for rain but, by the time I arrive at the caravan park, all signs of that have gone. It’s stinking hot, there’s no shade, and I still have to set up the tent, borrowed gratefully from my friend Brett. Setting up the tent should be easy, but the spot I’ve been allocated is half cement slab, half pebbles. A quick call to management - it’s too hot to walk back- and I’m relocated beneath two gum trees. The ants aren’t happy about my invasion of their space and set up is slowed by a few dozen biting insects, crawling all over my feet while I negotiate between the hard ground and the tent pegs. The elderly couple in the camper next to me are highly entertained as I stamp my way around each corner and fumble with the fly, where I finally work out that the writing goes on the sides, not the front as explained to me. Success! Mission accomplished, I have shelter for the night and the kitchen has a fridge to store the last of my food for tomorrow. More importantly, it has a sink to wash the cooling gel from all my food items, and proper shade to eat beneath.

Here I meet Leonie and Craig, ex-Killara residents who used to live only five minutes from where I grew up. We’ve actually crossed paths at check-in, where our friendly host jokes that the code to the men’s bathrooms is simpler than the women’s for a good reason. Mock horror from Craig, who turns and sees me waiting. I grin and tell him, “Three against one, mate.”

We have a lot in common and before I know it, we’re all in the pool together enjoying some cool relief from the evening heat. I sheepishly ask them to take a photo of me, partly as I’m documenting this trip, and partly because all who know me well will appreciate how rarely I go for a swim. As we hop out, the sun bursts from behind a cloud in a display that only nature can create. It’s beautiful, and my mood has finally lifted. We chat awhile as I eat the rest of dinner and Craig writes with his special fountain pen in the dwindling light. Camping is a wonderful thing - you meet all types of kind and interesting people and it’s such a pleasure to disconnect from daily life for a while.