Another wondrous morning greeted our early awakening this morning. This was a good sign as the usual bustle of activity was undertaken to get the van packed up then hitched to the rear end of ‘The Beast’ for a day on the road. Such was the feverish pace at which we toiled, we even managed to leave the caravan park a few minutes earlier than planned.

On the road, a strong wind was blowing favourably for us, almost pushing us along. After days of fighting a head wind right across the Nullarbor, it was heartening to see the fuel economy dial sliding back towards the healthier end of the scale. The scenery also changed significantly from the barren wastelands of the Nullarbor, to present us with the giant patchwork quilt appearance of tidily cultivated farmland.

The road we followed today put us on track to pass through a number of small coastal towns, enroute to Port Lincoln, not that we expected to reach the town today. While we know we won’t be reaching Port Lincoln tonight, we don’t yet know exactly where it is we will be stopping. We’re flying a bit by the seat of our pants today in that respect, although we do have a number of possible campsites marked out on the map.

The first town we made a stop at was in Streaky Bay. Certainly a picturesque little town, there was nothing open today being a Sunday. Not even the visitor information centre was open, so we had to make do with what information we were able to glean from the few brochures we had collected elsewhere. That was how we came to be sitting in ‘The Beast’ parked alongside the foreshore, the wind positively whistling in off the turbulent water, squealing noisily through the open window as we tried to decide what we wanted to do.

Bec had read about a series of scenic drives around the area, but all involved a decent amount of dirt road driving. Without knowing what we could expect of the dirt roads quality wise, and no where to safely leave the caravan, it was a bit of a conundrum as to whether we should take a chance with the caravan following along for the ride.

I was all for continuing on our way, but Bec argued that we had already spent so much time deciding, that it would be pointless to leave without even taking a look. Bec won the debate, although we did choose the shorter of the three possible drives. This drive would take us on a 30 odd kilometre loop from Streaky Bay out to Cape Bauer and back again. It was with just a little bit of apprehension that we steered off of the black top and onto the solidly formed dirt road out to the cape. As it turned out, despite my incessant stressing, the road was better than many of the supposed highways we have travelled along, although I still kept the speed steady at a touch under 60Km/h.

The first stop we made was at the sensational Hallys Beach. Hidden from the road by soaring dunes, Bec had to walk down the access road to make sure we would have enough room in the car park to turn the rig around. With a call over the radio that the parking area was more than generous in dimension, I wheeled in and parked so that we could go for a walk down to the beach front. And when I say down, I mean down. Once reaching the peak of the sand dunes, a long timber staircase wound its way to the soft sand of the beach far below.

The long trek down to Hallys Beach.

With the waves crashing down on the sandy and rocky shore, swimming here probably wouldn’t be advisable, but it was otherwise as marvelous a beach we’ve been to. The water was glassy, with the tops of the waves being ripped to a ragged white foam by the ever present howling wind. Stretching out for miles on either side of us, we were the only living soles within sight. Of course, that presumes that you don’t include the thick swarms of blowflies that followed your every move. I have never encountered such numbers of the sticky little creatures as what we have over the past week or so, Bec especially finding them difficult to deal with.

The next stop on the scenic drive itinerary was at the blowholes and whistling rocks. The blowholes were out of order, looking decidedly dry, as if they had been inactive for some time. This was a shame, reflecting on the considerable effort that was required to reach them. With the wind seriously threatening the safety of my hat, I had to negotiate the series of stairs and platforms, all the while clenching my hat to my head to prevent it becoming airborne.

Not sure what’s worse. Having to hold my hat or having a bad hair day!

At least at the bottom of the stairs, we were able to take in both natural attractions and on the other side from the indolent blowholes, the whistling rocks were hard at work, producing noises akin to a jet engine spinning up to full power with each incoming wave. I was enthused by this and could have happily spent all day watching the wave action as the rocks let out their screaming groans. Of course, the flies were still present, forcing us to wave our arms about wildly in a futile attempt to swat them away.

Out of order, the blowholes.

Whistling rocks were active at least.

The remainder of the drive took us past Cape Bauer, where a narrow four wheel drive path prevented our access, although we figured that the view from the road was sufficient. Further down the track, we made a number of stops purely to look out over the effervescent aqua water of the bay, trying to make out if what we were peering at through binoculars were seals, sea lions, turtles, rays or just floating clumps of seaweed. The jury is still out on that one, although we’re leaning towards clumps of inanimate seaweed.

After leaving Streaky Bay, with a promise to return another time, we travelled onwards. We stopped next at the Colston Bakery, which we only discovered as a result of Bec reading somebody else’s travel blog. There’s no fancy shop or bake house here, just a sign pointing to a tiny little cabin on the side of the road, with an honesty box to leave your payment in. Unfortunately, we missed out on any of the advertised sweet treats, but we were lucky enough to seize one of the final two loaves of bread left in the shuttered shelves. Judging by the difficulty I had in crushing our coins into the little moneybox, business is booming. And when we later tasted the crispy crusted, airily soft bread, spread with a thick layer of butter, it wasn’t hard to see why.

By this stage, it was time to think seriously about pulling in for the night. The first of the campsites we had highlighted on the map turned out to be a narrow little dirt lane, too close to the main road for our comfort and already tenanted by a couple of vans taking up the majority of the small space. We decided to drive onwards as I again followed Becs lead. She had marked a beachside camping area, which could only be reached by first travelling half a dozen kilometres along a windy dirt road. Again, I wasn’t overly enthused with the idea of traipsing across the dirt, but given our earlier success, I went along with the plan. Being that it’s a council approved camp area, we first had to register and pay a $10.00 fee at the small shop that is effectively the town of Sheringa. Small change in the grand scheme of things, and with our next option a further hours drive down the road, it was all I could do to get us into camp at a reasonable hour.

As it turned out, the road into the Sheringa Beach Camping area had been freshly graded, so presented no issues to the van. At the designated camping area, we joined another couple of caravans, as we pulled into a spot that practically backed right onto the beach. With the sun still shining warmly, we dragged the dogs out for an afternoon walk along the talcum powder like sand. I looked longingly out to sea as we walked, wishing that I had brought along a surf fishing rod, as I felt for sure I could have caught us a feed of fresh fish for dinner. Sans surf rod, or any bait for that matter, we retreated to the van, just as the weather began to turn.

On the beach.

It started with the wind, which increased from its previous steady breaths to gale like qualities, causing the van to rock on its pliant steel springs. It was ferocious, as it swirled a scathing flurry of sand across anything that got in its way. Relentlessly, it continued into the night. If there was ever a time to hang a sign on the door along the lines of ‘if this van’s a rocking, don’t come a knocking’, well tonight would have been the night.

The wind brought with it an icy chill, the likes of which the meager insulation of the van was barely able to withhold, while the occasional pitter patter of rain could be heard falling against the roof. On a positive note, for the first time in days, the flies were conspicuously absent from the picture.

Until next time, stay safe, have fun and don’t forget to write.