A STONE'S THROW AWAY. (WHILE VISITING IN CORNWALL)

 

I find myself increasingly hampered these days by a dodgy right hip that needs replacing, but it may have to go on grinding for the foreseeable future. My long cross country ramblings have been curtailed, reduced to short walks around the village, and even then it’s best if I stay on level ground. I’ve noticed that old age leaves me with a dual aspect; increasingly looking back through memories of halcyon days, when the world was my oyster and everything seemed possible, or forward to a future that still offer great excitement, but maintaining the balance between the two is not always obvious. In the center of this panorama is the all-important here and now, and of living in the moment.

  

February is not famed for its beautiful sunny days, but when they do occur I like to make the most of them. The churchyard being only just a stone’s throw away is a favourite place for me to sit quietly with my sketch pad, and if it’s too chilly, out will come that marvel of modern technology, my mobile phone. It’s been almost two years since I ventured into Tesco’s and enquired about their flat cameras. The young man looked baffled until I added that I believe they also have the ability to make phone calls and all manner of internet things.

There have been a lot of changes in the churchyard over the past two years, and with major clearing of the boundary hedges and overgrown graves it’s now possible to see just how extensive it is. We are perhaps fortunate that those boundaries became unkempt, and thus avoided the trend that began in the 70’s of uprooting headstones and placing them around edges of the graveyard for easy maintenance. We didn’t however avoid the felling of the fine beach trees within the graveyard, and one by one they were felled. The last massive trunk remains as an ugly reminder of what has been lost. The excuse given was that they had a fungal infection, but as my brother said at the time “I get athletes foot, but nobody suggests I should be cut of at the shins. Removing the tree canopy only served to allow more light in and hence more growth of wild garlic and brambles. The yew trees escaped unscathed perhaps due to some bad luck superstition of old, but there is no time like the present for planting trees that one day our grandchildren will be able to climb or sit in the shade of.

Today’s trendy environmental byword of re-wilding is more often than not used as a convenient excuse to do nothing. Land that had been traditionally managed for centuries can be treated in a less manicured way in order to increase the chances of wildlife, but to do nothing is not always the correct alternative for the harmonious existence of man and nature. The timing of grass cutting to encourage ground nesting birds is an obvious bonus, and the replanting of hedgerows may bring privacy for some along with the delight of having small birds returning to the garden. However the latter can also be dependent on the local cat population. The program of re-wilding Probus churchyard has been a process of working with nature, while maintaining the upkeep of what has always been a managed area. Clearing away brambles and ivy has led to some fascinating discoveries, while leaving other areas uncut with the reintroduction of more wild flowers has brought colour and joy. My particular interest lately has been searching for the names of those talented monumental masons who created such intricate design and often left their signature at the top edge of the gravestone. Most of these are on the slate stones dating from 1800 onwards, with on occasions some interesting spelling, like Dabb from St Austele, with an “e”. I found; W. Coad from St Enoder, Edgecombe Truro, F. Loyd or is that Floyd from Truro 1807, Isblle Truro, and Spargo of Truro dated 1871. Unfortunately I’m not here during the spring, but for me the low light during winter months is a time of contrast and ideal for sketching. The long shadows cast by gravestones and trees provide depth, and at times those shadows can even tell me what lies outside my field of vision.

Restricted to these shorter walks gives me time to look again at the familiar and more often than not to observe things that had until now remained hidden or taken for granted. The carved stones in the east wall of the church have always fascinated me as they would date from the 14^th century having almost certainly been incorporated from the earlier St George’s Chapel founded in 1384. While most of these carved stones are purely decorative others have more meaning, like that of a Catherine wheel to celebrate St Catherine. However the Arma Christi stone depicting the weapons of the Passion is perhaps one of the rarest object within the fabric of the church building. Immediately to the right of this stone is a cruciform carving which may represent the thirty pieces of silver. The impressive Hawkins tomb supported by four cavaliers provides a good vantage point to see a tiny, relatively insignificant caryatide head high on the east gable, another reuse of stone from an earlier period.

I’ve often wondered what the statues that were originally placed in the hooded alcoves of the tower must have looked like. Given the quality of the tower carving they must have been very impressive. The era of Oliver Cromwell probably put pay to them, but the tower itself remains the tallest and most ornate in Cornwall. Over the decades I’ve watched the roof of the sextants hut gradually fall into disrepair, but I am delighted that efforts are being made for its restoration. There is always something new to discover within the curtilage of the churchyard, as well as something of interest for the artists eye. I also find peace at the heart of the village, and if I can no longer roam into the surrounding countryside I’m more than happy to just sit an observe.

GONE WALK-ABOUT (Excerpts from a journeyman artist's diary).

Having recently returned from Western Australia on a trip that I fully intended would be my goodbye to WA, I thought it interesting to first look back at something I wrote back in 2017. That trip took me to places I could no longer reach, but there were other, that with the aid of friends I was able to revisit. It was an emotional rollercoaster at times, but I was delighted to take this at my own pace and fill yet another sketch pad. 

It is in mans nature to always reach for the limits search out to that furthest point whether it was the very edge of his flat world or off to the moon and beyond. I recognise that within myself as I don my backpack with the day’s requirements and walk for hours out to some distant headland or along some remote rocky coastline, territory the 4x4’s have as yet left virgin and I eventually arrive at the beach that for now is all mine. At least that’s how it used to be but now it is increasingly difficult to guarantee that one has anywhere no matter how remote to oneself. Today roads seem to lead to every corner of the globe and the worst you might encounter at least in South West Australia are a few corrugations on the dusty dirt road but any discomfort is appeased on arrival with the view from the parking and a dry toilet.

 So it was at Wharton where most people stop at the great sweep of a beach where the surf was good, but the more adventurous fishermen forged on that extra kilometre to Little Wharton just over the rise to Hammer Head and Lorraine Island. The view is truly magical but it takes the more observant amongst us to understand what we are looking at. There are in fact three more beaches with a forth to the eastward side. The entire complex is an illusion of islands in the making with a fragile system of dunes holding them tenuously to the mainland. Hammer Head rises like a vast whale from the southern ocean with its calf alongside still not released from the ensnaring nets of the mainland. To the east of Wharton lies High Island and Table Island which illustrate perfectly the next stage of this coastal erosion. Here the dunes have been washed away and even at low tide one is obliged to wade across the shallow waters.

Walking around High Island requires a certain level of climbing skills and even I don’t risk the steep south west corner. Gaining the summit required a little bush bashing but the view is spectacular not only seaward but also back inland to the dirt red approach road as the distant dust tells of more on their way. Here on top of my little world there are wind-worn granites and one in particular draws my attention not only for its rectangular shape but for the fact that it is completely hollow throughout its length of almost three feet. I find a dry stick nearby and give the rock a tap and there I have the extra ordinary sound of granite.

I’ve left my cloths at the waters edge to wade across to the flat Table Island, there's something wonderful about taking absolutely nothing with me to investigate this small outcrop of windswept rock. I’m accompanied by a lone black back gull that seems curious to find a naked man wandering around his territory and on my return a fisherman greets me not batting an eyelid at my lack of clothing offering me a cold coca cola from his eski as he talked of the joy of walking to fish from such wonderful places and how lucky he was that the wife walked out on him. I talked in the same open manner of my work and how bad weather lifts my eyes to the drama of the skies lowering the horizon of my sketching, while sun and blue skies like today brings me back to the contours of rocks and the crashing of waves.We sat clothed and unclothed sipping cool canned coca cola, two men happy just being there between High and Table Island.

I camp overnight at Little Wharton with a strong westerly wind picking up and thank the local authorities for having installed a smart new toilet just for me it would seem.The following morning I make an early start it being high summer and light at five. I make my way snaking around the first two beaches and then across the dunes hoping to gain shelter but receiving little more than the stinging of white sand on my face and legs. Reaching the shelter at the far end below the brooding bulk of Hammer Head I take my first dip in the crystal clear turquoise waters, waves perfect for body surfing. No surfers here and no doubt they are still asleep or surveying the likelihood of large waves curling round into Wharton beach. Refreshed I head west into the wind clambering across the rocks to a point below the cave. Few make it this far but there is evidence of an indistinct track upward proving that I’m not the only person to venture this far. One could be forgiven for simply admiring the view from this enormous cavern before returning but for the more adventurous amongst us must turn our back on all that and scramble up to the very back of the cave past the resident swallows where another source of light becomes apparent, indicating the way up and out through a cascade of crumbling and rotten granite rocks, following the light and squeezing my way to the exit which brings me out near the summit. When I first discovered this on my last visit popping my head out from between the rocks I had a moment of shear childish delight of having clambered through the very bowls of the earth.

Walking over to the seaward side the full force of salt spay laden wind stings my face. Here bare rock plunges down to do battle with a relentless southern ocean and there nestling within a protected cleft lies an impossible enchanted wood of aromatic leave, scented flowers, spiny limbs and flaking bark. It is as if nobody has ever set foot there and that within lie unnamed mysterious creatures who have survived from a forgotten time.

Further around fault lines within this ancient weathered granite have allowed trapped boulders to act like the pestle within a mortar grinding out deep warm plunge pools. The rock is patterned and striated ochre through to deep rust red from sea salt and water that leaches out from the mineral soil growth that clings to the upper reaches of this inhospitable outcrop of rock. Once at the eastward end the wind abates and I come within the shelter of the headland. This is the favoured spot of fishermen oyster catchers and shags and certainly a fine place for abalone hunting. I return to my surfing spot and delight once more in body surfing allowing the perfectly proportioned waves to hurl me back to the white sands. I amble back stopping to collect small shells thrown up beyond the rocks on the west side and eventually make it back to the Landrover to brew a mid afternoon tea.  Throughout the late afternoon cars continue to arrive driving past the car park and following the track as far as the beach. I amuse myself by watching and timing each visit to an average of two minutes irrespective of whether they managed to turn on the beach with four wheel drive or reversed back up. I’ve been here two days and never tire of the constant change of light and rhythmical thrashing of the sea. What is this new and abhorrent species of man, this holiday maker who travels in sealed air-conditioned discomfort ticking off been there and done it places on a map? The very same who complain about the rising cost of fuel but who rarely leave the safe confines of that vehicle to make contact with this wonderful world. It would seem they come simply to confirm with their own eyes that which they saw on the travel brochure or on the TV documentary. There is little that remains of our former nomadic nature and thus we commence the sedentary period of man where the only thing to increase is the girth of his gut.

Am I so very different from other people, is being different something I cultivate in order to be apart?  Increasingly I feel I have less and less in common with other people and that I am in danger of becoming an eccentric but perhaps this is only natural when out here in the back and beyond roughing it in the wild.When I do encounter other people they seem very different to me in their actions and thinking or perhaps I’m simply becoming an antisocial old fart.

Moving along the coast to Cape Le Grand National Park is somewhat of a culture shock as one is expected to use the campsites at either end of the park. This may have been done for simplicity of collecting the fees since perfectly adequate facilities can be found elsewhere in the park.  

I reluctantly moved into one of the allotted bays at Lucky Bay and soon found myself making polite conversation with fellow campers.Time to cook but before I’ve had time to cut up the veg someone else has bagged their place covering the remaining gas ring with an enormous empty frying pan. It would seem this is rush hour in the kitchen so I give up returning to the Landrover and my habitual method of cooking with the Trangia stove. After rustling up a gut full I take off with the didgeridoo down to the beach and out of earshot of others not that I mind an audience but I preferred the time to digest alone. Finally I retired up onto the roof for the night, but alongside the radio is turned on to a channel with hip-hop or house music just a little too loud to ignore. Before I have time to get annoyed I move out down to a spot by the beach where the only sound is that of lapping waves. Sleeping up on the roof-rack has the advantage of being able to up stick and move with relative ease. There followed a sound nights sleep but my hopes that prior to six o’clock the rest of the happy campers would still be in the sack were dashed. As I approached the toilet block with 25 yards to go I spotted someone coming from the opposite direction, I took the path leading off down to the beach rather than getting close enough even to nod my head in recognition of another human beings presence. I prefer my own company during this period of awakening, a preference that is fast becoming a 24 hour thing but what the hell it’s not for long so enjoy it while you can.

After almost a week of accumulated grime and sweat baked on with liberal doses of sun screen it seemed a shame to remove what had started to resemble a truly natural barrier to not only the elements but to other humans. Living outside allows such luxuries as not washing but today’s society requires no natural odours preferring to replace these with a synthetic stink that assault the nasal passage on every street corner. It is therefore a luxury for me to not only acquire and rediscover my own distinctive mustiness but also to feel the accompanying salty stickiness attained from continual skinny dips into the southern ocean. There is no point in changing cloths so the same old sleeveless blue T shirt (now grey with the sun) takes on a seriously lived in look. Under ware is out or rather off from day one and baggy shorts although somewhat crusty provide that sense of freedom in letting it all hang loose. The coastal terrain that I ramble over must be considered as rough and at times requires a reasonable level of climbing skill and for this reason five to eight kilometre per day is sufficient leaving me time to sketch bathe and simply admire this spectacular scenery. I make an early start off by seven to be back by mid afternoon. Often before eight I’ve had my first dip in the sea but by far the best is on retuning to plunge into the waves but for this I have made it a rule to strip completely in order to fully enjoy body surfing through the turbulence of the only true bubble bath. After only a week of hiking, swimming and low fat and sugar camp food I can feel my body changing, toning up with an early to bed and early to rise routine that I love. Being up for the sunrise and that special light that so many miss but also having that time to be very aware of myself those first reawakening stretches to discover the day. Above all I think it’s the drive I still have to get out there and explore on my own in remote places and not to fear that my body will let me down but that I will understand my own limits with knees that can take only so much steep downward slopes and my ascents might be slower than in my youth but that on difficult ground a slow plodding gate will always get you to the top and down. Another thing I noticed yesterday on reaching the summit of another granite outcrop was that I was not out of breath at all and at this slower pace I am free to take in more of these wonderful surroundings whether it be the patterns and colour of the granite or the weathered shapes of sun-bleached and wind battered remains of the sparse plant life. It becomes second nature to keep a good fifty percent of ones concentration downward, not wanting to fall but also for the possible presence of snakes. Since I don’t often follow the indicated paths I must also work out my own route ahead and try to avoid at all costs prolonged spells of bush bashing as on the lower reaches of the hills at this time of year there is far more risk of encountering snakes and to upset a tiger snake is to say the least unwise. Looked at from mans point of view Australia would seem a very brutal and harsh place unrelenting in its hardships, however this would be unfair to look at it solely from mans standpoint as it is in fact a very fragile land for the most part which has suffered greatly at the hands of man. So is the brutish and macho attitude displayed by many Australians today in some way a natural reaction to being raised within such a harsh landscape? There still exist many outback areas where survival is anything but simple and here you encounter the true salts of the earth. However modern town or city life has every luxury to hand and to a standard rarely seen in Europe. The café street culture has boomed along with the massive increase in viticulture and for many areas there has been a conscious effort to copy everything French.

The tough nut alpha males are conspicuously visible with their mates culture and god given right to drive everywhere in a four-wheel drive vehicle, but like so many hard boiled sweets they often prove to have a soft centre, it’s the Sheila’s that have to be handled with care.The overriding impression is one of a still young country that has arrived on the world scene with massive potential but that has no concept of its continuing racist attitudes. Most of the population appear to be racist and that is born out by the number of times you hear the denial, “I’m not, we’re not or Aussie’s aren’t racist”. There are things that pass unquestioned in this country which the world frowned upon when it looked at similar conditions in South Africa and as with any other country little will change unless they can first learn to admit their racism.
The long journey back west and I stop to stretch my legs taking a stroll along the dried up river bed outside Jerramungigup. This fragile land is made even more so here where water no longer flows but what little is left stands static and stagnant, awaiting in hopes of an end of summer flushing. The surrounding parched gently sloping land is dotted with what little remains of woodland bush and we too easily forget that the biggest forest in the world once covered this land. When the rain does come it accumulates inland over a vast area slowly over days working its way into river courses strengthening to form a massive torrent of water that gathers up and carries the dry season’s detritus ever closer to the sea. The landscape turns green in a flurry of growth, and while nature and the elements have had the role of forming this land it is man who world wide has transformed it into what we see today. One gets an idea of just what this impenetrable landscape must have looked like throughout Western Australia on entering the Fitzgerald National Park.

Between East and West Mount Barren there is fabulous untouched bush with a most incredible diversity of plant and yet to the casual passer by it all looks the same bush. The term bush is somewhat of a throw away giving the impression that it’s something uninteresting boring and valueless when in fact it is the monoculture landscape that man has replaced it with which is of little true value and often very monotonous.

 

 I’m now in the tourist country of Bremer Bay but thankfully I’ve arrived before the masses, the campsite is practically empty and I have the place to myself, wonderful. On my last trip to Bremer it was a very different story with the mid summer rush, with ten minutes of arriving I had stepped on a bull ant and spent the next quarter of an hour with a large paintbrush in my mouth biting down hard against the agony. It eased quite quickly after that and although I’d been told how painful they could be I had not expected it to be that bad. Outback Australians are an extra ordinary resourceful bunch and seem to bring with then the kitchen sink and more. Encampments are just, that none of the simply put up a tent when you can string old tarpaulins from the nearest trees to create the maximum shade. Everything seems to have a second use and I was puzzled by the spare car bonnet that arrived with one family. The curved blue lump of metal wasn’t the same colour or shape as their rather ancient vehicle and is wasn’t until later that day that all was revealed when they turned it upside down onto a support and proceeded to light up a barbeque fire within. I am for ever conscious that my passage through this land is swift so I often find myself sketching in pencil and allowing the digital camera to record the rest gathering the maximum amount of information in the shortest possible time this still means that I remain in front of the subject considerably longer than most people.

Half a days drive and I’m in the familiar coastal scenery of Albany and after a short stop off to collect provisions it was out to Good Beach. As usual the walk out to Bald Head was wonderful and as always it had another face to show me. Since I last slogged along the isthmus track there had been a fire apparently it burnt for days with no way of controlling it. Since then the re-growth has been vigorous and what was immediately noticeable as elsewhere are the wild flowers. The scale of this land is so vast and yet the flowers within it are so small and delicate as if economising on growth just as with the leaves. Flowering is also sporadic not only on the plant itself but that the plant life is so diverse that only a few of each species occur in a particular location. The burning out of the centre portion of the walk out to Bald Head meant better visibility but not for much longer if the present rate of growth continues. The day started perfectly with any light cloud clearing quickly to give a fine reflective light over the water as well as colour to the bush.

The temperature soon rose and the scents from the vegetation meant it quickly took on the feel of walking through a herb garden which made me wonder if you could in fact cook with any of these, had those first explorer tried them out thinking they resembled herbs back in Europe. So much within this land is toxic that I wouldn’t want to risk any experimental culinary delights. It became obvious that I was with my early start the first on the trail since Christmas spider’s webs spread from every possible support.  I ducked under most of those that lay full in my path with the spiny black and yellow spiders sitting patiently in waiting, but inevitably not all remained undamaged with my passing. Only when I had descended onto the final part of my walk and looked back up onto the Banksia ridge did I see the couple following me out. They were far enough behind however to allow me my quiet time of contemplation with only the waves crashing against the horseshoe rock below. It was great to have made it out here once again and each time I wonder if my legs or rather knees with manage it. The young Swiss couple arrived and together we fed the very tame lizard which had grown accustomed to eating all offerings including chocolate. Then the Scottish couple I’d met the previous evening at the campsite arrived and so we chatted and ate our lunch each person taking it in turn to write something in the visitor’s book hidden within a plastic box in the stone carne. I had told them last night that I normally go back via the sand slide but I’d been told it was well worn by heavy rain. After the Swiss couple moved on I asked the Scots if they’d like to join me, they were game and it turned out to be quite an adventure which I realise is quite often the case on my walks. A serious amount of sand had gone leaving a steep ravine and a cliff face of sand. I was not about to risk walking under that so we headed to the east which in itself was not easy with sand still loose. Luckily they had both had climbing experience in Scotland but I doubted if they’d ever seen anything quite like this. The long sand slide terminated in a good three metre drop at its base where the sea had cut into it. We had hoped to swim but the weather had changed with it clouding over and a stiff breeze. The goat track around the next head was as exhilarating as ever and with a brisk pace along the limestone shore we made it back to the car park by three. They went off to investigate the surf at Salmon Holes while I returned to Good Beach and to freshen up with a shower. They joined me later for tea and we swapped addresses as travelers often do but with no real intension of seeing each other again.

I moved on west stopping off at Mutton Bird Island a brilliant day with clear skies and a south westerly breeze. The waves were perfect for body surfing but would not have attracted any serious surfer. It was just me and four girls on the massive sweep of beach, they trying their best to stand up on their boards while I contented myself being hurled in at speed towards the shore, I felt obliged to ware shorts!

As I drove slowly up Gully Road towards some of the largest of the tingle trees two trucks and two cars joined me on the gentle climb. However it became obvious that none of them were enjoying the sedate pace through the woods and wanted to get to the giant trees as quickly as possible. Wondering what the rush could possibly be I pulled over and let them pass. As I arrived at the car park my heart sank as it was almost full and the din of children screaming and adults shouting at them was not what I required for my time amongst the by now very familiar trees. So I decided to head in the reverse direction around the visitor’s pathway and within fifteen minutes there was complete silence. I sat for a few minutes sketching and realised I’d forgotten the fixative spray so returned to the Landrover. The car park was empty, they had all moved on having seen the few nearest trees taken a quick snap shot. They had missed some of the finest trees in their unwillingness to do the full circuit and had moved on perhaps to the tree top walk where they would have to pay but at least there was a shop and they could buy some trashy gift. Once again I pondered how the beauty of this world is wasted on the human race. Here in the valley of the giants that beauty is free and there is minimal intervention by man. I had forgotten just how beautiful the mosquitoes were here, large with delicate white spots down their legs but they still bite.

Time amongst the giant tingle trees slips by like being in the company of old friends. Once I got here at first light around five o’clock not a breath of wind and I immediately noted the low rumbling sound most likely caused by liquid being drawn up through the massive trunks but I preferred to think they were perhaps talking to each other. On my return to the Landrover five hours had passed by. 

After a quick sandwich I headed north for Circular Pool where the Frankland river gushes like freshly brewed tea over smooth sculpted rocks, reminding me of the Scottish burns that flow from the peat bog moors. I took a dip in the almost look-warm waters surrounded by frothy scum. Coming back down the river I met a couple from Donybrook who sat in quiet contemplation of the surroundings, at last someone who is not in a rush to snatch a photo and move on. I discovered he was a journalist photographer who had become disillusioned with his work. It was a real pleasure to talk with someone so calm and at peace with his surroundings. A large man who in his youth had driven everywhere in a 4 wheel drive then at the point where he renounced all that discovered that his legs could not do all that they once could and that he was now obliged to seek out reasonably accessible places. The moral being he said was to walk while you can and the wheels will come later.

Back to tourist watching at the Diamond Tree, leaving aside those who drive into the car park look left and drive on, most people come to climb the first few runs of the ladder and pose for photos. There is nothing wrong in that and there is plenty of room on the ladder for all the family but it’s still the Japanese who take first prize. One could be forgiven for thinking that the digital camera was invented just for them to take ever more snap shots so that every member of the family has their moment of glory in front of the lens and that every possible group combination of poses can be obtained. Most have totally inappropriate foot ware and attempt only the first ten or so runs in flip-flops or loose fitting sandals. Then it’s the turn of the English, they waited patiently polite and then it’s the chance for the bare footed young son to show these Japanese just how it’s done. A little too confident he strides up and by the tenth run almost looses his hand hold, that scares him and he proceeds with added caution. His two younger sisters follow him up the youngest at full stretch between the runs and I wonder if they can be English. Later when the girls return to the car my doubts are confirmed as they speak to each other in German. Once again it is the turn of the Japanese who stayed to watch the others effort and now their competitive spirit aroused they can’t resist in trying to better that. Four of the family head up but fare no better than before defeated by vertigo. So the Germans return better equipped now with shoes mother is the first to test it out for safety followed by the three children in order of age. Father stays at ground level in charge of the camera.  Mother and son press on to the half way cage as Father fans flies and takes photos as the older daughter renewed with confidence also reaches the safety of the half way point, father takes more photos. The youngest daughter I can’t see, no more than five years old and on the far side of the tree and I can’t stand the suspense. The mother and her two older children start their descent and I see the youngest at the base full of tears of failure as her father comforts her. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw them at last nearing the base and wonder if such foolhardiness had been spurred on by the fact that they had seen DOC 1 in large letter across the top of my Landrover roof-rack. High in the canopy of the Karri trees I sit and sketch and am lost in its complexity wishing I had thought to bring my sleeping bag up with me and be rocked in to gentle slumber. It is perhaps not surprising how few English people make it up here. They advise against it if one has a heart condition and to think twice before attempting the second steeper flight but I think the determining factor is more likely to be that they are not only unfit but often too obese to even fit inside the protective stairway cage.

I made an earl start on the Chesapeak Road one of my favourite drives along an undulating more or less straight road through majestic tree towering overhead like the interior roof structure of some fine medieval cathedral. Half way along I was met with a road closed sign but didn’t take any notice thinking it was probably for one of the tributary roads but no, at the Gardner Road turn off a yellow road sign barred the way. I noticed tracks running round one side and evidently people had pushed on passed ignoring the sign so I did likewise only to find a kilometre on an iron locked fitted bar. Other than going all the way back this was the only way heading west. I once again squeezed the Landrover around the iron barrier and continued on the Chesapeak Road towards the Gardner River Bridge. At the bridge I met the real obstacle, here they had mounded up sand and grit from the road in an attempt to stop people crossing what they now considered to be a dangerous bridge. This was going to take a little more thought. I had noticed a kilometre or so back there was a new road into the bush so decided to investigate finding it led to a crossing point but the floodway was nearly a meter deep and an indeterminate depth of mud. I didn’t like the look of that so went back to inspect the bridge. Having walked across around and under I reckoned it was fit to hold the weight of the Landrover and much more for many years to come however the first mound was too steep to drive over and I noted that other people had reversed into the bush in order to then drive up onto the bridge without slipping sideways into the ravine and the river some five or six meters below. The mound at the west end would be easy just a simple up and over the barricade so I slipped into low ratio and gentle eased my way first up onto the bridge then across home and dry. The other end of the Chesapeak road had been similarly barred with a locked barrier but a track had already been created high to one side by other adventurers and as I skirted the last barrier a truck and trailer arrived obviously workers from CALM about to unlock and push up more soil to deter people like me passing. I waved an acknowledgement and drove on imagining that I was perhaps the last person to have crossed the old wooden Gardner River Bridge before some modern metallic alternative is built or that road is consigned to history.

Back in February 2008 I was heading east walking along the fly infested coast at Cape Riche in sweltering heat I stripped founding my shorts more useful as a fly switch and effective extension to the Australian wave. The walk proved useful on the shell front as I found several little sandy inlets between rocks. Since my first trip back in the late 90’s I’ve collected shells from Western Australia and the west coast of Scotland that have inspired a variety of objects. I took several plunges to cool off but regretted not having the face mask and snorkel. On my way back to estuary beach I swam again this time with shorts and was surprise that nobody else ventured in. In fact where ever I go I’ve noticed that I am often the only person in the water which has nothing to do with sharks but everything to do with the temperature of the water which they consider cold and I the hardened Hebridrean the only one brave enough to enter the water without a wet suit. Back in 2012 while in the Fitzgerald national park I made a detour to Quoin Head since a friend had said it was easily accessed and beautiful. The drive in was a long and slow 18 k due to some serious water erosion and at the end a very steep descent to the camp site. If there hadn’t been others down there I wouldn’t have attempted it but in low ratio I crept down but would have a good look before attempting the climb back up. A large mug of coffee had guaranteed that I woke in the night and unzipping my canvas roof bender I pushed my head through into a perfect star lit night. Only in remote places like this can the term star lit night be truly understood since it is the stars themselves that light up the night and even though there was no moon my surroundings were as clear as at a full moon. The entire milky way there to get lost in with Orion clear and high in the sky and the seemingly infinite expanse of space leads one to contemplate just how insignificantly small we are. It often seems like an implosion is about to take place and at that point I will disappear, perhaps like a little solitary electron hoping to attach onto an atom. Will life in the end amount to no more than tears in the rain, or will that rain then join an ocean of consciousness.

 

 

Gone walk-about. (Excerpts from a journeyman artist’s diary.)

It is in mans nature to always reach for the limits search out to that furthest point whether it was the very edge of his flat world or off to the moon and beyond. I recognise that within myself as I don my backpack with the day’s requirements and walk for hours out to some distant headland or along some remote rocky coastline, territory the 4x4’s have as yet left virgin and I eventually arrive at the beach that for now is all mine. At least that’s how it used to be but now it is increasingly difficult to guarantee that one has anywhere no matter how remote to oneself. Today roads seem to lead to every corner of the globe and the worst you might encounter at least in South West Australia are a few corrugations on the dusty dirt road but any discomfort is appeased on arrival with the view from the parking and a dry toilet.

 So it was at Wharton where most people stop at the great sweep of a beach where the surf was good, but the more adventurous fishermen forged on that extra kilometre to Little Wharton just over the rise to Hammer Head and Lorraine Island. The view is truly magical but it takes the more observant amongst us to understand what we are looking at. There are in fact three more beaches with a forth to the eastward side. The entire complex is an illusion of islands in the making with a fragile system of dunes holding them tenuously to the mainland. Hammer Head rises like a vast whale from the southern ocean with its calf alongside still not released from the ensnaring nets of the mainland. To the east of Wharton lies High Island and Table Island which illustrate perfectly the next stage of this coastal erosion. Here the dunes have been washed away and even at low tide one is obliged to wade across the shallow waters.

Walking around High Island requires a certain level of climbing skills and even I don’t risk the steep south west corner. Gaining the summit required a little bush bashing but the view is spectacular not only seaward but also back inland to the dirt red approach road as the distant dust tells of more on their way. Here on top of my little world there are wind-worn granites and one in particular draws my attention not only for its rectangular shape but for the fact that it is completely hollow throughout its length of almost three feet. I find a dry stick nearby and give the rock a tap and there I have the extra ordinary sound of granite.

I’ve left my cloths at the waters edge to wade across to the flat Table Island, there's something wonderful about taking absolutely nothing with me to investigate this small outcrop of windswept rock. I’m accompanied by a lone black back gull that seems curious to find a naked man wandering around his territory and on my return a fisherman greets me not batting an eyelid at my lack of clothing offering me a cold coca cola from his eski as he talked of the joy of walking to fish from such wonderful places and how lucky he was that the wife walked out on him. I talked in the same open manner of my work and how bad weather lifts my eyes to the drama of the skies lowering the horizon of my sketching, while sun and blue skies like today brings me back to the contours of rocks and the crashing of waves.We sat clothed and unclothed sipping cool canned coca cola, two men happy just being there between High and Table Island.

I camp overnight at Little Wharton with a strong westerly wind picking up and thank the local authorities for having installed a smart new toilet just for me it would seem.The following morning I make an early start it being high summer and light at five. I make my way snaking around the first two beaches and then across the dunes hoping to gain shelter but receiving little more than the stinging of white sand on my face and legs. Reaching the shelter at the far end below the brooding bulk of Hammer Head I take my first dip in the crystal clear turquoise waters, waves perfect for body surfing. No surfers here and no doubt they are still asleep or surveying the likelihood of large waves curling round into Wharton beach. Refreshed I head west into the wind clambering across the rocks to a point below the cave. Few make it this far but there is evidence of an indistinct track upward proving that I’m not the only person to venture this far. One could be forgiven for simply admiring the view from this enormous cavern before returning but for the more adventurous amongst us must turn our back on all that and scramble up to the very back of the cave past the resident swallows where another source of light becomes apparent, indicating the way up and out through a cascade of crumbling and rotten granite rocks, following the light and squeezing my way to the exit which brings me out near the summit. When I first discovered this on my last visit popping my head out from between the rocks I had a moment of shear childish delight of having clambered through the very bowls of the earth.

Walking over to the seaward side the full force of salt spay laden wind stings my face. Here bare rock plunges down to do battle with a relentless southern ocean and there nestling within a protected cleft lies an impossible enchanted wood of aromatic leave, scented flowers, spiny limbs and flaking bark. It is as if nobody has ever set foot there and that within lie unnamed mysterious creatures who have survived from a forgotten time.

Further around fault lines within this ancient weathered granite have allowed trapped boulders to act like the pestle within a mortar grinding out deep warm plunge pools. The rock is patterned and striated ochre through to deep rust red from sea salt and water that leaches out from the mineral soil growth that clings to the upper reaches of this inhospitable outcrop of rock. Once at the eastward end the wind abates and I come within the shelter of the headland. This is the favoured spot of fishermen oyster catchers and shags and certainly a fine place for abalone hunting. I return to my surfing spot and delight once more in body surfing allowing the perfectly proportioned waves to hurl me back to the white sands. I amble back stopping to collect small shells thrown up beyond the rocks on the west side and eventually make it back to the Landrover to brew a mid afternoon tea.  Throughout the late afternoon cars continue to arrive driving past the car park and following the track as far as the beach. I amuse myself by watching and timing each visit to an average of two minutes irrespective of whether they managed to turn on the beach with four wheel drive or reversed back up. I’ve been here two days and never tire of the constant change of light and rhythmical thrashing of the sea. What is this new and abhorrent species of man, this holiday maker who travels in sealed air-conditioned discomfort ticking off been there and done it places on a map? The very same who complain about the rising cost of fuel but who rarely leave the safe confines of that vehicle to make contact with this wonderful world. It would seem they come simply to confirm with their own eyes that which they saw on the travel brochure or on the TV documentary. There is little that remains of our former nomadic nature and thus we commence the sedentary period of man where the only thing to increase is the girth of his gut.

Am I so very different from other people, is being different something I cultivate in order to be apart?  Increasingly I feel I have less and less in common with other people and that I am in danger of becoming an eccentric but perhaps this is only natural when out here in the back and beyond roughing it in the wild.When I do encounter other people they seem very different to me in their actions and thinking or perhaps I’m simply becoming an antisocial old fart.

Moving along the coast to Cape Le Grand National Park is somewhat of a culture shock as one is expected to use the campsites at either end of the park. This may have been done for simplicity of collecting the fees since perfectly adequate facilities can be found elsewhere in the park.

   

I reluctantly moved into one of the allotted bays at Lucky Bay and soon found myself making polite conversation with fellow campers.Time to cook but before I’ve had time to cut up the veg someone else has bagged their place covering the remaining gas ring with an enormous empty frying pan. It would seem this is rush hour in the kitchen so I give up returning to the Landrover and my habitual method of cooking with the Trangia stove. After rustling up a gut full I take off with the didgeridoo down to the beach and out of earshot of others not that I mind an audience but I preferred the time to digest alone. Finally I retired up onto the roof for the night, but alongside the radio is turned on to a channel with hip-hop or house music just a little too loud to ignore. Before I have time to get annoyed I move out down to a spot by the beach where the only sound is that of lapping waves. Sleeping up on the roof-rack has the advantage of being able to up stick and move with relative ease. There followed a sound nights sleep but my hopes that prior to six o’clock the rest of the happy campers would still be in the sack were dashed. As I approached the toilet block with 25 yards to go I spotted someone coming from the opposite direction, I took the path leading off down to the beach rather than getting close enough even to nod my head in recognition of another human beings presence. I prefer my own company during this period of awakening, a preference that is fast becoming a 24 hour thing but what the hell it’s not for long so enjoy it while you can.

After almost a week of accumulated grime and sweat baked on with liberal doses of sun screen it seemed a shame to remove what had started to resemble a truly natural barrier to not only the elements but to other humans. Living outside allows such luxuries as not washing but today’s society requires no natural odours preferring to replace these with a synthetic stink that assault the nasal passage on every street corner. It is therefore a luxury for me to not only acquire and rediscover my own distinctive mustiness but also to feel the accompanying salty stickiness attained from continual skinny dips into the southern ocean. There is no point in changing cloths so the same old sleeveless blue T shirt (now grey with the sun) takes on a seriously lived in look. Under ware is out or rather off from day one and baggy shorts although somewhat crusty provide that sense of freedom in letting it all hang loose. The coastal terrain that I ramble over must be considered as rough and at times requires a reasonable level of climbing skill and for this reason five to eight kilometre per day is sufficient leaving me time to sketch bathe and simply admire this spectacular scenery. I make an early start off by seven to be back by mid afternoon. Often before eight I’ve had my first dip in the sea but by far the best is on retuning to plunge into the waves but for this I have made it a rule to strip completely in order to fully enjoy body surfing through the turbulence of the only true bubble bath. After only a week of hiking, swimming and low fat and sugar camp food I can feel my body changing, toning up with an early to bed and early to rise routine that I love. Being up for the sunrise and that special light that so many miss but also having that time to be very aware of myself those first reawakening stretches to discover the day. Above all I think it’s the drive I still have to get out there and explore on my own in remote places and not to fear that my body will let me down but that I will understand my own limits with knees that can take only so much steep downward slopes and my ascents might be slower than in my youth but that on difficult ground a slow plodding gate will always get you to the top and down. Another thing I noticed yesterday on reaching the summit of another granite outcrop was that I was not out of breath at all and at this slower pace I am free to take in more of these wonderful surroundings whether it be the patterns and colour of the granite or the weathered shapes of sun-bleached and wind battered remains of the sparse plant life. It becomes second nature to keep a good fifty percent of ones concentration downward, not wanting to fall but also for the possible presence of snakes. Since I don’t often follow the indicated paths I must also work out my own route ahead and try to avoid at all costs prolonged spells of bush bashing as on the lower reaches of the hills at this time of year there is far more risk of encountering snakes and to upset a tiger snake is to say the least unwise. Looked at from mans point of view Australia would seem a very brutal and harsh place unrelenting in its hardships, however this would be unfair to look at it solely from mans standpoint as it is in fact a very fragile land for the most part which has suffered greatly at the hands of man. So is the brutish and macho attitude displayed by many Australians today in some way a natural reaction to being raised within such a harsh landscape? There still exist many outback areas where survival is anything but simple and here you encounter the true salts of the earth. However modern town or city life has every luxury to hand and to a standard rarely seen in Europe. The café street culture has boomed along with the massive increase in viticulture and for many areas there has been a conscious effort to copy everything French.

The tough nut alpha males are conspicuously visible with their mates culture and god given right to drive everywhere in a four-wheel drive vehicle, but like so many hard boiled sweets they often prove to have a soft centre, it’s the Sheila’s that have to be handled with care.The overriding impression is one of a still young country that has arrived on the world scene with massive potential but that has no concept of its continuing racist attitudes. Most of the population appear to be racist and that is born out by the number of times you hear the denial, “I’m not, we’re not or Aussie’s aren’t racist”. There are things that pass unquestioned in this country which the world frowned upon when it looked at similar conditions in South Africa and as with any other country little will change unless they can first learn to admit their racism.

The long journey back west and I stop to stretch my legs taking a stroll along the dried up river bed outside Jerramungigup. This fragile land is made even more so here where water no longer flows but what little is left stands static and stagnant, awaiting in hopes of an end of summer flushing. The surrounding parched gently sloping land is dotted with what little remains of woodland bush and we too easily forget that the biggest forest in the world once covered this land. When the rain does come it accumulates inland over a vast area slowly over days working its way into river courses strengthening to form a massive torrent of water that gathers up and carries the dry season’s detritus ever closer to the sea. The landscape turns green in a flurry of growth, and while nature and the elements have had the role of forming this land it is man who world wide has transformed it into what we see today. One gets an idea of just what this impenetrable landscape must have looked like throughout Western Australia on entering the Fitzgerald National Park.

Between East and West Mount Barren there is fabulous untouched bush with a most incredible diversity of plant and yet to the casual passer by it all looks the same bush. The term bush is somewhat of a throw away giving the impression that it’s something uninteresting boring and valueless when in fact it is the monoculture landscape that man has replaced it with which is of little true value and often very monotonous.

   I’m now in the tourist country of Bremmer Bay but thankfully I’ve arrived before the masses, the campsite is practically empty and I have the place to myself, wonderful. On my last trip to Bremmer it was a very different story with the mid summer rush, with ten minutes of arriving I had stepped on a bull ant and spent the next quarter of an hour with a large paintbrush in my mouth biting down hard against the agony. It eased quite quickly after that and although I’d been told how painful they could be I had not expected it to be that bad. Outback Australians are an extra ordinary resourceful bunch and seem to bring with then the kitchen sink and more. Encampments are just, that none of the simply put up a tent when you can string old tarpaulins from the nearest trees to create the maximum shade. Everything seems to have a second use and I was puzzled by the spare car bonnet that arrived with one family. The curved blue lump of metal wasn’t the same colour or shape as their rather ancient vehicle and is wasn’t until later that day that all was revealed when they turned it upside down onto a support and proceeded to light up a barbeque fire within. I am for ever conscious that my passage through this land is swift so I often find myself sketching in pencil and allowing the digital camera to record the rest gathering the maximum amount of information in the shortest possible time this still means that I remain in front of the subject considerably longer than most people.

Half a days drive and I’m in the familiar coastal scenery of Albany and after a short stop off to collect provisions it was out to Good Beach. As usual the walk out to Bald Head was wonderful and as always it had another face to show me. Since I last slogged along the isthmus track there had been a fire apparently it burnt for days with no way of controlling it. Since then the re-growth has been vigorous and what was immediately noticeable as elsewhere are the wild flowers. The scale of this land is so vast and yet the flowers within it are so small and delicate as if economising on growth just as with the leaves. Flowering is also sporadic not only on the plant itself but that the plant life is so diverse that only a few of each species occur in a particular location. The burning out of the centre portion of the walk out to Bald Head meant better visibility but not for much longer if the present rate of growth continues. The day started perfectly with any light cloud clearing quickly to give a fine reflective light over the water as well as colour to the bush.

The temperature soon rose and the scents from the vegetation meant it quickly took on the feel of walking through a herb garden which made me wonder if you could in fact cook with any of these, had those first explorer tried them out thinking they resembled herbs back in Europe. So much within this land is toxic that I wouldn’t want to risk any experimental culinary delights. It became obvious that I was with my early start the first on the trail since Christmas spider’s webs spread from every possible support.  I ducked under most of those that lay full in my path with the spiny black and yellow spiders sitting patiently in waiting, but inevitably not all remained undamaged with my passing. Only when I had descended onto the final part of my walk and looked back up onto the Banksia ridge did I see the couple following me out.They were far enough behind however to allow me my quiet time of contemplation with only the waves crashing against the horseshoe rock below. It was great to have made it out here once again and each time I wonder if my legs or rather knees with manage it. The young Swiss couple arrived and together we fed the very tame lizard which had grown accustomed to eating all offerings including chocolate. Then the Scottish couple I’d met the previous evening at the campsite arrived and so we chatted and ate our lunch each person taking it in turn to write something in the visitor’s book hidden within a plastic box in the stone carne. I had told them last night that I normally go back via the sand slide but I’d been told it was well worn by heavy rain. After the Swiss couple moved on I asked the Scots if they’d like to join me, they were game and it turned out to be quite an adventure which I realise is quite often the case on my walks. A serious amount of sand had gone leaving a steep ravine and a cliff face of sand. I was not about to risk walking under that so we headed to the east which in itself was not easy with sand still loose. Luckily they had both had climbing experience in Scotland but I doubted if they’d ever seen anything quite like this. The long sand slide terminated in a good three metre drop at its base where the sea had cut into it. We had hoped to swim but the weather had changed with it clouding over and a stiff breeze. The goat track around the next head was as exhilarating as ever and with a brisk pace along the limestone shore we made it back to the car park by three. They went off to investigate the surf at Salmon Holes while I returned to Good Beach and to freshen up with a shower. They joined me later for tea and we swapped addresses as traveller often do but with no real intension of seeing each other again.

I moved on west stopping off at Mutton Bird Island a brilliant day with clear skies and a south westerly breeze. The waves were perfect for body surfing but would not have attracted any serious surfer. It was just me and four girls on the massive sweep of beach, they trying their best to stand up on their boards while I contented myself being hurled in at speed towards the shore, I felt obliged to ware shorts!

As I drove slowly up Gully Road towards some of the largest of the tingle trees two trucks and two cars joined me on the gentle climb. However it became obvious that none of them were enjoying the sedate pace through the woods and wanted to get to the giant trees as quickly as possible. Wondering what the rush could possibly be I pulled over and let them pass. As I arrived at the car park my heart sank as it was almost full and the din of children screaming and adults shouting at them was not what I required for my time amongst the by now very familiar trees. So I decided to head in the reverse direction around the visitor’s pathway and within fifteen minutes there was complete silence. I sat for a few minutes sketching and realised I’d forgotten the fixative spray so returned to the Landrover. The car park was empty, they had all moved on having seen the few nearest trees taken a quick snap shot. They had missed some of the finest trees in their unwillingness to do the full circuit and had moved on perhaps to the tree top walk where they would have to pay but at least there was a shop and they could buy some trashy gift. Once again I pondered how the beauty of this world is wasted on the human race. Here in the valley of the giants that beauty is free and there is minimal intervention by man. I had forgotten just how beautiful the mosquitoes were here, large with delicate white spots down their legs but they still bite.

Time amongst the giant tingle trees slips by like being in the company of old friends. Once I got here at first light around five o’clock not a breath of wind and I immediately noted the low rumbling sound most likely caused by liquid being drawn up through the massive trunks but I preferred to think they were perhaps talking to each other. On my return to the Landrover five hours had passed by.

After a quick sandwich I headed north for Circular Pool where the Frankland river gushes like freshly brewed tea over smooth sculpted rocks, reminding me of the Scottish burns that flow from the peat bog moors. I took a dip in the almost look-warm waters surrounded by frothy scum. Coming back down the river I met a couple from Donybrook who sat in quiet contemplation of the surroundings, at last someone who is not in a rush to snatch a photo and move on. I discovered he was a journalist photographer who had become disillusioned with his work. It was a real pleasure to talk with someone so calm and at peace with his surroundings. A large man who in his youth had driven everywhere in a 4 wheel drive then at the point where he renounced all that discovered that his legs could not do all that they once could and that he was now obliged to seek out reasonably accessible places. The moral being he said was to walk while you can and the wheels will come later.

Back to tourist watching at the Diamond Tree, leaving aside those who drive into the car park look left and drive on, most people come to climb the first few runs of the ladder and pose for photos. There is nothing wrong in that and there is plenty of room on the ladder for all the family but it’s still the Japanese who take first prize. One could be forgiven for thinking that the digital camera was invented just for them to take ever more snap shots so that every member of the family has their moment of glory in front of the lens and that every possible group combination of poses can be obtained. Most have totally inappropriate foot ware and attempt only the first ten or so runs in flip-flops or loose fitting sandals. Then it’s the turn of the English, they waited patiently polite and then it’s the chance for the bare footed young son to show these Japanese just how it’s done. A little too confident he strides up and by the tenth run almost looses his hand hold, that scares him and he proceeds with added caution. His two younger sisters follow him up the youngest at full stretch between the runs and I wonder if they can be English. Later when the girls return to the car my doubts are confirmed as they speak to each other in German. Once again it is the turn of the Japanese who stayed to watch the others effort and now their competitive spirit aroused they can’t resist in trying to better that. Four of the family head up but fare no better than before defeated by vertigo. So the Germans return better equipped now with shoes mother is the first to test it out for safety followed by the three children in order of age. Father stays at ground level in charge of the camera.  Mother and son press on to the half way cage as Father fans flies and takes photos as the older daughter renewed with confidence also reaches the safety of the half way point, father takes more photos. The youngest daughter I can’t see, no more than five years old and on the far side of the tree and I can’t stand the suspense. The mother and her two older children start their descent and I see the youngest at the base full of tears of failure as her father comforts her. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw them at last nearing the base and wonder if such foolhardiness had been spurred on by the fact that they had seen DOC 1 in large letter across the top of my Landrover roof-rack. High in the canopy of the Karri trees I sit and sketch and am lost in its complexity wishing I had thought to bring my sleeping bag up with me and be rocked in to gentle slumber. It is perhaps not surprising how few English people make it up here. They advise against it if one has a heart condition and to think twice before attempting the second steeper flight but I think the determining factor is more likely to be that they are not only unfit but often too obese to even fit inside the protective stairway cage.

I made an earl start on the Chesapeak Road one of my favourite drives along an undulating more or less straight road through majestic tree towering overhead like the interior roof structure of some fine medieval cathedral. Half way along I was met with a road closed sign but didn’t take any notice thinking it was probably for one of the tributary roads but no, at the Gardner Road turn off a yellow road sign barred the way. I noticed tracks running round one side and evidently people had pushed on passed ignoring the sign so I did likewise only to find a kilometre on an iron locked fitted bar. Other than going all the way back this was the only way heading west. I once again squeezed the Landrover around the iron barrier and continued on the Chesapeak Road towards the Gardner River Bridge. At the bridge I met the real obstacle, here they had mounded up sand and grit from the road in an attempt to stop people crossing what they now considered to be a dangerous bridge. This was going to take a little more thought. I had noticed a kilometre or so back there was a new road into the bush so decided to investigate finding it led to a crossing point but the floodway was nearly a meter deep and an indeterminate depth of mud. I didn’t like the look of that so went back to inspect the bridge. Having walked across around and under I reckoned it was fit to hold the weight of the Landrover and much more for many years to come however the first mound was too steep to drive over and I noted that other people had reversed into the bush in order to then drive up onto the bridge without slipping sideways into the ravine and the river some five or six meters below. The mound at the west end would be easy just a simple up and over the barricade so I slipped into low ratio and gentle eased my way first up onto the bridge then across home and dry. The other end of the Chesapeak road had been similarly barred with a locked barrier but a track had already been created high to one side by other adventurers and as I skirted the last barrier a truck and trailer arrived obviously workers from CALM about to unlock and push up more soil to deter people like me passing. I waved an acknowledgement and drove on imagining that I was perhaps the last person to have crossed the old wooden Gardner River Bridge before some modern metallic alternative is built or that road is consigned to history.

Back in February 2008 I was heading east walking along the fly infested coast at Cape Riche in sweltering heat I stripped founding my shorts more useful as a fly switch and effective extension to the Australian wave. The walk proved useful on the shell front as I found several little sandy inlets between rocks. Since my first trip back in the late 90’s I’ve collected shells from Western Australia and the west coast of Scotland that have inspired a variety of objects. I took several plunges to cool off but regretted not having the face mask and snorkel. On my way back to estuary beach I swam again this time with shorts and was surprise that nobody else ventured in. In fact where ever I go I’ve noticed that I am often the only person in the water which has nothing to do with sharks but everything to do with the temperature of the water which they consider cold and I the hardened Hebridrean the only one brave enough to enter the water without a wet suit. Back in 2012 while in the Fitzgerald national park I made a detour to Quoin Head since a friend had said it was easily accessed and beautiful. The drive in was a long and slow 18 k due to some serious water erosion and at the end a very steep descent to the camp site. If there hadn’t been others down there I wouldn’t have attempted it but in low ratio I crept down but would have a good look before attempting the climb back up. A large mug of coffee had guaranteed that I woke in the night and unzipping my canvas roof bender I pushed my head through into a perfect star lit night. Only in remote places like this can the term star lit night be truly understood since it is the stars themselves that light up the night and even though there was no moon my surroundings were as clear as at a full moon. The entire milky way there to get lost in with Orion clear and high in the sky and the seemingly infinite expanse of space leads one to contemplate just how insignificantly small we are. It often seems like an implosion is about to take place and at that point I will disappear, perhaps like a little solitary electron hoping to attach onto an atom. Will life in the end amount to no more than tears in the rain, or will that rain then join an ocean of consciousness.