Our Aussie Adventures

I got up late last night, to take a nocturnal wander to find a tree, only to get a fright. As I stepped out of the van, I thought for sure that the couple of whizz bangers* who had decided to camp right by us overnight, had left their fire burning. On closer scrutiny, it turned out that far from being an out of control bushfire, it was the red soil. As it turns out, even under the lunar glow of a near full moon the dirt luminesces a fiery orangey red.

(*Definition: whizz banger/s (noun): Tourists, generally backpackers, travelling in tight little cramped vans with a sliding door. So named because of the clatter, i.e.: whizz bang, made by said door as it slides closed, often at either very early or very late hours. Generalisation, any backpacker camping out, regardless of their choice of vehicle style.)

Anyway, this morning we woke to another dreary morning, setting off after traversing state lines a number of times again in an effort to revisit the carpark on the other side of the road. We wanted to get some happy snaps of our momentous border crossings before continuing on. Not only that, but man spreading has been in the media recently, and I figured that if I could put a, ahem, leg in each state then why not.

Man Spreading, Outback Style!

We needed to clock up about 300KM today, broken into three reasonably equal stages. The first stage took us from the border crossing to Erldunda, passing through more of the same fantastic scenic landscape as we had travelled through yesterday. Wide open spaces interspersed with wads of scrub. Erldunda is a typical outback outpost, a combined hotel, caravan park, pub, petrol station, petting zoo, restaurant and mini-mart all rolled into one. It is situated where the road to Uluru meets the Stuart Highway, but for today at least, after a brief stop, we will be continuing northward. And we couldn’t have arrived with better timing, the last turn up the driveway sloshing the remaining few litres of fuel around in the belly of ‘The Beast’ with just enough vigour to cause the low fuel light to illuminate. I don’t mind running it close to the wire in the knowledge that the two cans in the back are still full up.

Rolling towards the bowsers, I surveyed the lengthy line of travellers, all waiting patiently to fill up. I hardly wanted to be waiting, so snuck around to the little known diesel pump around the back. That would speed up proceedings I figured. I was only a little shocked by the price, knowing full well that the tyranny of distance would be at work. $1.83 a litre. Doesn’t sound too bad until you syphon nearly 120 litres from their storage tanks into your own. And despite being branded a Shell outlet, there is no luxury of a discount docket to be had out in these parts.

Since our earlier escapades with exploding tyres, I’ve been keeping up a rigid routine of checking the pressures with systematic regularity. I therefore decided to take the opportunity while parked right by the air hose, to confirm that the contents of each rubber ring were at the optimum pressure before we moved off. I hooked up the inflator to the first tyre and pressed the button. A check of the tyre indicated that the pressure was a touch low. I squashed the button in again, hearing a flow of air and a creaking of the suspension joints. Something was happening, but when I released the valve, the pressure had actually dropped. I was flummoxed. I grabbed my own pressure gauge out of ‘The Beast’. It gave me the same reading. So I reconnected the pump and gave it another shot, only for the pressure to bleed some more, by which time we were at an impasse. I had now successfully lowered the pressure to such an extent that continuation of our immediate travel plans were in peril.

Then I saw it. The compressor, sitting forlornly in a locked cage, coated in a thick layer of red dust, with the switch set to the off position. I had managed then, to use the air in my tyre to begin to re-pressurise the tank of the compressor, rather than the other way around. What was meant to be a relatively quick stop for fuel was turning into an epic quest in its own right as I searched for the right person to gain access to the cage to switch the compressor on for me.

When I did find him, ‘The Beast’ garnered his attention, as he set in for a longwinded chat while I busied myself recanting my own air from the compressor to re-inflate my now squidgy tyre. Apart from that, the pressures were all good, so without further ado, we regained our position on the road, pointing the nose of the rig north for stage number two.

Stage two was another 100km trek, to Stuarts Well, another outpost which is home to a camel farm. In the hope of getting a ride upon a majestic dromedary, we pulled in and made enquiries at the counter. For reasons unknown, we were the first customers in a month to be granted a ride, half an hour sitting high atop gorgeous camels, trekking through the rocky outcrops of the foothills of the MacDonnell Ranges. As we rode, I discovered that one of our cameras seems to have bitten the dust. I then spent the next few minutes precariously balanced, untethered on my saddle as I struggled to get camera number two out of my pocket without falling off and looking like a dumb city slicker tourist rather than the cowboy persona I am trying to depict. Strangely enough, for this ridgy didge Aussie outback experience, our guide was a whizz banger from the UK, midway through her mandatory 90 days of rural work to earn her an extended visa.

Ready To Ride.

Whoosh.

Look Out, Here We Come.

This Is Fun.

Marcus Gets Into The Act.

Elated with our jaunt, we remounted in the leather saddles of ‘The Beast’ for the final stage of our journey, the final 100 or so kilometre journey into Australias outback capital, Alice Springs.

We arrived at our caravan park to be directed to what we initially thought was a rather ordinary site, almost like an overflow site, despite our booking being made some weeks ago. Upon closer inspection of the remainder of the park, we realized that we had prime position, located in the bush camping area of the park rather than squashed in amongst the other vans. After quickly parking the van, the hard work began, as Bec set about giving our little washing machine a marathon work out as I struggled to hoist the heavy sheets of canvas that make up our annex. It was over three hours later that we both finally managed to sit down, the realization dawning on us that it was after 6:00PM and we had stopped for neither breakfast or lunch and were by this time ravenous. We are now nestled under the shade of a couple of leafy trees, right by the pool, which I have promised Bec I am going to take a dip in should the temperature exceed 20^OC, set up for our extended stay of a week or so here, debating what crass brand of fast food is going to win out for a quick feed, neither of us feeling remotely energetic enough to fire up the stove to cook a meal.

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

The sounding of the alarm this morning heralded another day, sitting high up in ‘The Beast’, motoring along on the road. Moving on again, we hurriedly packed up in the early morning cold, before making our way down the dirt track from the caravan park to the highway. Turning right onto the highway, Shazza announced courteously that we need drive 398KM, then turn right at our destination. Not one for early mornings either, she then promptly went back to sleep, not to bother us for the rest of the day.

Drive for 398KM was pretty much what we did, taking in the changing landscape passing by all around us. There were wide-open plains, the red dirt punctuated with low tufts of greyish green foliage, scrubby wood obscured areas where the vegetation threatened to impinge on the thin ribbon of tar traversing the land and stretches where the horizon was brought closer by low, flat topped tors. The entire illusion was obfuscated in the soft light of the cloud-sheathed sun however. It was not until the brilliant orb reached its zenith, when it broke free from the clutches of the obstinate cover of billowy clouds, that the magic happened. The scenery ignited like it was being lit up with a spot light, even the aforementioned grey tufts of repugnant grass shone vividly, shimmering an extraordinary golden hue, while the red dust took on a lifelike quality such was the deepness of its tint. As the compass needle bounced between west and north with every bend in the road, each undulating rise we crested did nothing to dampen our spirits as the panorama unfolded anew. Peering through the expansive windshield of ‘The Beast’ as we cruised along in spellbound enchantment was like watching a nature documentary in full high definition.

By about 1:30PM, Shazza awoke lazily to announce the imminent arrival at our destination, the border crossing between South Australia and the Northern Territory. We pulled off of the highway, slowly rolling into the small, asphalted rest area that straddles the border. In order to find a place to stop, we drove around, crossing into the Northern Territory, before returning to South Australia and finally back into the Territory, only to find all of the caravan parking bays already hosting a lengthy rig or, in some cases, two rigs. I knew it was advisable to arrive early to get a spot here, but I had envisioned that 1:30PM would be premature if anything else. I was not overly concerned however as we didn’t actually plan on staying overnight in this sterile pad of concrete, but rather across the road where I had read there was an unofficial bush camping area.

Crossing The Border (Although This Pic Was Taken Tomorrow Morning).

So I double-parked for just long enough to jump out and identify where the access road to this secondary camp was. Sure enough, directly across the road two jagged wheel ruts were evident, meandering off through the scrub. I ran back to ‘The Beast’, idled it up to speed and navigated our way across the road and through the suddenly very small looking gap in the trees. Only a dozen or so yards off of the highway, the tightly packed bush opened out into a sparsely timbered band of soft sandy earth. With only one other group of campers apparent, we maneuvered our rig towards the opposite end of the camp ground, finessing our way between a couple of trees taking advantage of their shade offering qualities. With a little to and fro, we finally managed to locate a sod of earth that was of suitable levelness to accommodate us and called it quits for the day, somewhat regrettably, still on the South Australian flank of the border.

We threw open the windows and doors of the tin can, before letting the dogs out for a wander at which time we found our perfect little camp site to be not so perfect. As it turns out, the ground is strewn with nasty little nettles that need no encouragement to lodge themselves painfully in the feet of the dogs. Within moments, Bethany was limping along, here paws crammed with the invasive barbs. We were able to pluck them out, but she was somewhat more ginger about where she placed her feet after that and both her and Alvin needed careful checking over after each time they came outside.

As we walked with the dogs, we also collected some spindly bits of timber for a planned evening campfire. There is wood aplenty scattered about, but nothing of substance. I was thankful that we had brought a couple of decent hunks of lumber with us from Lake Hart. With what appeared to be a generous wood heap primed, we sat back to admire our hard work. Then decided that rather than wait for dark to ignite our blaze, we may as well get it underway. The kindling was so dry, it took immediately, burning hot and fast. So fast that Bec was soon displaying her pyromaniacal tendencies once more, nearly stripping one nearby tree bare of its lower boughs, joyfully feeding them into the now raging conflagration.

Looks Promising.

Feeding The Fire.

Surveying Her Work.

With the wood burning at such an alarming rate, I feared that the fire might not last too long, so raced to the van, returning with a bag of giant marshmallows to roast over the licking tongues of flame emanating from the pit of coal. We quickly discovered that bigger is not necessarily better when it comes to marshmallows, the sickly sweet goo erupting stickily from the only part baked, golf ball sized chunks of sweetness. With viscid liquid sugar running down our chins and coating our fingers, we decided that regular bite sized morsels are a much simpler proposition.

Toasting Marshmallows.

Dinner Is Served.

In keeping with our theme, and since the fire was burning for longer than we had expected, thanks to Bec rummaging up a constant supply of tree with which to feed it, we decided to wrap a few spuds in foil and toss them in to the red glowing coals, as an accompaniment to our dinner. An hour later, as I sizzled some ham steaks on the barbeque, Bec unwrapped the foiled balls of carbohydrates, the delicious aroma wafting enticingly across the campsite. They were cooked to perfection, a crispy skin shell embracing a billowy soft centre that had me relating them to the appearance of this mornings clouds. We ate by the fire, only the crackling sound of wood turning to ash disturbing the silence, as the sun set on another great day.

Hot Dog.

While the fire continued to burn, we each sat one of the dogs on our lap, all four of us staring in rapt fascination at the myriad of patterns created by the gradually diminishing orange, red and blue flames as the final sprigs burned out in a signal that it was time to retreat to the van and repose sufficiently for another day of adventure tomorrow.

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

When we checked in to the caravan park yesterday we were told kindly, but in no indeterminate manner that there were particular guidelines we had to follow with the dogs, especially with regard to minimising noise. It was therefore extremely aggravating to be awoken at 7:00AM by kids running around, squealing with high pitched glee that was way too energetic for the early hour, without a care for other campers. Their parents seemed not to care, even though these little brats were running directly through our site, ensuring that there was little chance that we would miss a single shriek. It’s not like there isn’t a wide expanse of dirt out the back that they could have been running about on, away from any other campers. I was left thinking that maybe parents of young children should be bound by the same rules as pet owners. That is, keep them quiet, pick up after them and put them on a leash or at the very least, suitably under control.

Thankfully, the kids must have left with their parents by a bit after 8:00AM, giving us the grateful chance at a little more studying the insides of our eyelids without the constant cacophony emanating from outside.

And sleep we did then, until 10:00AM, when we sluggishly regained consciousness, rising to prepare for the day ahead. Since we have been to Coober Pedy on several previous occasions, we have managed to see the majority of the touristy sites in and around the town, so we had nothing especially planned with which to fill our day. With that in mind, we left the dogs cocooned within the van, while we traveled the short distance through town to the unique, once bustling mining camp of a since passed local larrikin, Crocodile Harry. His domicile has since been opened up to tourists, although it fails to get a mention in any of the mainstream tourist brochures, so it is only those in the know that manage to find this place. And what a place it is.

Coober Pedy…

…Eccentricity…

…At Its…

…Best. (PS: That Bed Was In Mad Max III)

His traditional, yet expansive Coober Pedy styled dug out humpy is covered with all manner of relics pointing towards his hard living reputation and love of a good party. In fact the advertising catch phrase is that he partied for 30 something years here, and the evidence remains, plastered to the earthen walls of the main residence, in the form of signed lingere, photos, and hand written notes, many professing their authors love of Harry. Carved sculptures jut wantonly from the walls and other relics litter every available space. As eccentric an exhibition as you could imagine, there are no words that even I can find to aptly describe the joint. A bizarre contraction of articles could only be found here in Coober Pedy and of all of the other places we’ve been to in town, it is here that sums up the ambiance of the entire region. A thin veneer of normality concealing a fun and exciting underbelly of foible, just waiting to be discovered by those alacritous enough to search for it.

Back in town again, we parked ‘The Beast’ and went for a walk up and down the main street, stopping first at the supermarket for further supplies of nourishment, before going to look for opal. And by going to look for opal, I don’t mean that we pegged out our own claim and started digging. No, we did it the easy way, by browsing through a few of the many opal retailers trading on the main street. Every time we come to Coober Pedy Bec goes looking for an opal ring. Naturally, I tell her that if she sees anything that she likes, to buy it. That, I think, takes all the fun out of it for her though and despite finding a few bejeweled pieces that would have looked fine adorning one of her fingers, she declined yet again not to make a purchase. This was even after a warned her that it might be some years before we pass through town again. She smirked at that though, saying that it will only be a few weeks before we travel right by again. She got me there.

Back at the van, where the dogs by this time had been for a number of hours, we were greeted with unabated excited abandon and no nasty surprises. While they tried to smother us with sloppy lashes of their tongues, we set about to prepare another slap up lunch, before having a breather before getting ready for this afternoons activities. We had decided to make the drive out to The Breakaways, to watch the setting of the sun.

We left in plenty of time, taking the babies with us this time around, for the 50 odd kilometre drive, unsure what road conditions we would be greeted with enroute. As it turned out, even when the macadam gave way to red dirt, we were pleasantly astonished to find them in good repair. The drive takes you on a scenic loop that is hard to imagine is even earthly. In fact, the plains that are bisected by the 5 and a half thousand kilometre ‘dog fence’ are actually known as the moon plain. An expansive stretch of desert, speckled with fist sized gibber rocks. The Breakaways themselves are a series of low mesas that break the horizon, rising up from the surrounding flatness. In an ever changing display of colour as the light alters, they are best viewed from one of the two cliff top lookouts.

SUNSET AT THE BREAKAWAYS.

We stationed ourselves thus, to witness the spectacle as the sun set, but a smattering of broken cloud prevented the amazing display which we were eagerly anticipating. It was nevertheless worth the effort, but we did make tracks for the van soon after the sun had plunged below the horizon as the temperature began it own slide toward the lower reaches of the mercury bubble.

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

We’ve been lucky the last few days, blessed with clear, warm days. Overnight however has been a substantially different story, especially last night when the temperature dipped to close to freezing, seeing us again pile the blankets high atop us, as we fought a nocturnal battle over sole custody of the doona. By the time we were struck from our kip, to the tone of the alarm announcing it time to face the day, it was already warmer out than it was in. Yet another perfect day lay ahead, the sun offering a modicum of warmth that thawed the still cold bones.

The reason for the alarm was due to our itinerary calling on us to hit the road and continue our journey this morning. It was so, that we slowly packed up our camp for another day of following the white line further north. There was little to be done, but we took our time as there was no rush to leave. We have only about 300Km to travel and no set time to arrive.

Slightly before 9:30AM, we bid fond farewells to Lake Hart, and turned back onto the highway. As ‘The Beast’ warmed up and got up to speed, I noted happily that the fuel gauge was again pointing to all things being right, the economy sitting right in the middle of the expected band. I have finally resolved that our earlier excessive fuel usage was a symptom of a slowly deflating tyre. And we all saw how that ended up, didn’t we? (If not, click here to read all about it.) Lesson learned in that respect, to keep a close eye on your tyre pressures, even though I had diligently confirmed the correct pressures were evident in each rubber ring on the rig prior to leaving home.

In any case, so happy was I that we were achieving a much more respectable distance as compared to the diminution of our fuel supplies, we sailed on past the hodgepodge collection of rustic buildings that marked the outpost of Glendambo, replete with a quaint sign proclaiming: “Last fuel for 250KM”. Not a worry in the world had I as we bunkered down and sped on by, more concerned I was to enjoy the views greeting us in every direction we looked. The landscape out here is something to behold, a generally wide expanse of gently undulating nothingness, with hardly a landmark on which to mark your bearings. Of course, in this modern day and age of satellite guidance, it is difficult to comprehend what a feat it must have been in days gone by to strike through the open country with nothing more than a compass and a few camels. It is no wonder that early explorers had such a tough time of it.

Another hour later, my attention had once again turned to the interior of ‘The Beast, the dashboard in particular, as my mental calculations were suddenly conflicting with my earlier cavalier nevertheless attitude, as I figured that the fuel tank of ‘The Beast’ might run dry only an agonizingly few kilometres short of Coober Pedy, the next town along our route and our planned destination for the next couple of days. I ran through the figures, time and time again, but my calculations were right and the result constant. We would fall short by a matter of 5 or 10 kilometres. With discretion being the better part of valor and with still more than 100Km to travel, I pulled safely off of the highway into a roadside rest area. I failed to see the point of continuing to the point of running the tank dry, as the threat of sucking up gunk from the bottom of the tank is too high. It would be similar to a clot breaking free in an artery, risking what could only be termed as a mechanical heart attack. Even in the best-case scenario, running a diesel dry would result in having to re-prime the fuel lines by hand before being able to even attempt to restart the engine. No, I was having none of that. Instead, I quickly unbuckled one of the cans from the back of ‘The Beast’, dumped 20 litres of diesel down the throat of the tank and off we tootled again. Bet I had you worried, but really? You really thought we were going to run out of fuel in the middle of nowhere?

Back on the road again, ‘The Beast’ happily purring along following a sufficient drink of dieseline to see us continue our travels unabated, the eccentric spectacle of huge mounds of dirt began to dominate the panorama. The piles, cast off waste from the opal mines for which Coober Pedy is world renown are both an eyesore and a marvel. It was 1:00PM when we pulled into our chosen caravan park, 5Km out of Coober Pedy. You can tell a lot about the climatic conditions of the area when the promise of free showers is a major draw card. Ribas Underground Camping and Tourist Park is literally the only caravan park in the town at which you can take a shower without having to feed coins into a shower side box to trigger running water, even though there is no water supply to your site. As well as the free showers, we like the park because it is a little way out of town, away from the hustle and bustle, if you could call it that.

Pointed to our site by the manager, after another heart stopping moment when again, our booking wasn’t immediately located, we pulled the tin can into position beneath a shade cloth clad arbor that in the hotter summer months shield the vans from the beating solar rays. As for this time of year, it is hardly necessary, but nonetheless another welcome feature.

We took our time to set up our abode, lunching on toasted sandwiches as we worked. We then took the dogs out for an exploratory wander to tire them out a little, before we secured them in the van and headed for town. Time will tell if they have got this whole stuck in the van thing figured out just yet or not.

Welcome To Coober Pedy, But Beware…

…Danger Lurks!

In town, we stopped at the public dump spot, to empty the contents of our dunny, a job I don’t relish, but which needs doing on a regular basis for obvious reasons. We then went sightseeing at the aptly monikered ‘Big Winch’ lookout, before contemplating our dinner plans as we wandered aimlessly about the well-stocked supermarket, picking up a few much needed supplies.

The Big Winch Lookout And…

…The View Of The Town Centre.

Returning to the van, we found the babies had indeed been well behaved in our absence. That was as great a relief as any, excuse the pun, to all concerned.

With daylight starting to falter, we then quickly set about preparing dinner, which saw me grilling a couple of steaks on the barbeque outside, while Bec whipped up an assortment of accompanying vegetables. We convened to dine indoors, as the falling sun saw to an almost immediate corresponding fall in temperature, before spending the remainder of the evening relishing the warmth spewed forth by the roaring heater.

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

Our plan of a sleep in was struck with a bout of misfortune this morning when Bethany decided at the ripe hour of 8:00AM that her bladder wasn’t going to hold out any longer. Taking her for a quick walk in the chill of the morning was enough to freshen me up, and any thought of further sleep was cast aside.

Instead, I reveled in the early morning glow of the sun as it rose into the azure sky bereft of any clouds for what promised to be another perfect day in paradise. I even took a short stroll myself, down to the lake, to find that the water level has continued to rise overnight. I made a mental note to find out from whence it is fed, as it has been a couple of days now since precipitation has tumbled down. I can only hazard a guess that it is being filled by distant run off.

Back in the van, as Bec and the two dogs continued to slumber on the bed, I wrapped myself up in blankets to ward off the cold permeating the thin walls of the van, reading a book while pondering the tranquility just outside our condensation drenched windows.

Guess Who Else…

…Wants Breakfast?

With Bec arising somewhat later in the morning, it was closer to lunch time that we set about to prepare breakfast, a delicious feast of bacon and eggs, washed down for me with a litre of steaming hot coffee. Hardly wanting to move at the conclusion of our indulgence, we decided that we really ought to make the most of our day here. We started with a wander up towards the main car park, although we hadn’t made it too far when we gleefully discovered a pile of timber, left behind by another caravanner. It wasn’t a lot, but we cheerfully declared that it would suffice for a small evening campfire tonight as we slowly manhandled it back to our own little patch of wilderness. Only when we returned once more to the van did we face the mountain of dishes that needed to be done. No small chore, I was about worn out by the time we were done.

Our Little Log Pile.

No rest for the wicked though, as we secured the dogs in the van, so that we could take a wander down to the lake again. It was more of a trial, to get them used to being in the van on their own again, hopefully with no further wet and smelly mishaps. They handled it with aplomb this time around, although we were gone for barely half an hour.

While Bec then set about tidying up the inside of the van, de-fleecing our furnishings as best she could of almost enough dog hair to make another dog, I tumbled around in the back of ‘The Beast’ drawing out my little chainsaw. Far from being sizeable or powerful enough to fell even a smallish tree, it made short work of the little logs we had lugged back earlier, turning them into perfect campfire sized chunks of combustible carbon for incineration this evening.

There was just a final chore left for the day then, as Bec sat outside with one dog at a time to give them a brush, hoping to prevent any further influx of wooly hairballs floating about in the van. With our work done for the day, it was well and truly time for a drink. We have found though, that much more alcohol than is usual for us has been consumed over the last few days, as we choose to live by the mantra that we are on holidays and thus will enjoy it to the utmost. In a slight nod to cutting down on the booze, I have decided that from hence forth, not a drop shall pass my lips before 5:00, and I really think that I should be able to live up to this decree as I am rarely up before 5:00 in the morning anyway!

With our tipple in hand, we raided the fridge for some snacks, in lieu of a proper lunch considering the lateness of our breakfast. Chowing down on an assortment of cheese, dips and crackers we worked it off immediately by taking the dogs for another walk around the camping area. All four of us arrived back at the van in varying states of weariness, especially Alvin who I thought I was going to have to carry the final hundred yards or so. This put a vitalizing siesta for one and all on top of the agenda.

Off For A Walk.

By the time we awoke, plans for dinner were put into place, Bec cooking up a storm in the kitchen in just enough time for us to dine alfresco, peering fondly across the lake as the sun began its afternoon show of dipping below the horizon in a display of pink and orange hues that are impossible to describe.

Dinner And…

…Smores.

With dinner consumed and the sun down, it was time enough for us to generate our own light show as I constructed an elegant pile of dried timber, before setting it aflame. With a crackle and pop, the tongues of flame took hold amongst the tender kindling, educing a spectacle like only a campfire can. While I made Smores, Americas favorite campfire treat for dessert, Bec bounced around like the devil incarnate, poking and prodding and adding way more wood than I thought necessary to the fire. I had to remind her on several occasions that it was meant to be a campfire and not a bon fire, while also pointing out that in case of emergency, the nearest hospital was 250KM away, and in the wrong direction.

By Fire Light.

It was fun though, and I have to hand it to her, she had that little fire stoked up to outstanding proportions as we sat enjoying the utmost serenity of the bush as our pile of lumber dwindled to glowing red coals. The warmth of the fire exhausted, the chill night air quickly took hold, thus we retreated to the relative warmth of the van where a hot shower beckoned, before we spent the remainder of the evening curled up beneath the duvet, staring intently at the moving picture box.

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