I have spoken to many travellers who have their own ways of acquainting themselves with a place. A guy I once met in Byron [Bay] said that on arriving in a new place, he would take his shoes off and feel the land underneath his feet. He said that no two places have ever felt the same and that the connection to a place’s energy is through the earth. A man I knew in London would go to what he considered the centre of any place he happened upon and sit for hours silently watching the people go by. For myself, I simply either feel at ease or not, there is no great myth or ritual… except that I tend to personify places. I imagine that they are speaking to me in a private dialect that only we share. Predictably the ocean speaks to me in the same way.

So what of Denham? Did she speak to me?

She did far more than converse…she sang me love songs.

It wasn’t so much that I was enjoying the worldly (and truly wonderful) elements of Denham – the pub [naturellment!], the foreshore, the beach, the genial host (the now infamous and lovely Old School); it was more that the entire time that I was there, I was having the most beautiful conversation and love affair with Shark Bay herself. Kalbarri had felt like a homecoming, whilst Denham in contrast felt new and undiscovered; she was a precious secret, guarded closely by her local crew, but she’d personally asked me to come to her, to say hello, just for a while.

Patchouli felt less in awe of Denham, she enjoyed the pub, the foreshore, the beach and the genial host; but as my affair with Shark Bay was an unspoken thrill entirely inside my own mind, she was not privvy to the joy I felt as I gazed around in wonder. There were parts of this section of coast that we didn’t go to – places that some new friends I made whilst propping up the bar one night told me about, but it didn’t matter to Shark Bay and I because not seeing or knowing everything there was to know, kept the magic alive between us and she knew that I would be back to explore further another time.

Whilst his mother was drifting around in a joyous dreamworld in the hot sunshine, Poetboy was discovering precious gems of his own. Ever the keen fisherman, he was thrilled to have been equipped with a life jacket and two way radio by Old School to “give the boy some freedom and space of his own”; so off he trudged, with the his usual brooding intensity and muted enthusiasm, to the end of a Jetty within our view from Old School’s property, to while away the afternoon. Some time later the radio crackled, and Poetboy’s concerned voice came through saying “Er, Mum, you better come here”.

I rolled my eyes. Poetboy has quite the appetite for drama. “What’s wrong sweetheart?” I answered. crackle… hiss… There was no answer. Suddenly Poetboy appeared, his face red, his eyes wild and concerned, out of breath and panic creeping into his voice as he announced “I’ve hooked a Dugong, you have to come [to the jetty] quickly”.

Dugong and Calf

“Of course you have darling” my patronising response to my son’s obvious distress. Old School looked at me oddly and rose from the table where he, Patchouli and I had been chatting and supping beer, relaxing in the welcome cool breeze afforded to Old School’s house by the nearby ocean. Unaccustomed as he was to my son’s flair for storytelling, he was off to investigate the notion that a Dugong had unwittingly swum into my boy’s line…and rightly so…if Poetboy had maimed a Dugong, accidentally or not, I could only imagine that this would be serious business.

Off they hurried to inspect the damage to the alleged Dugong. I took Baby J and followed in

a relaxed fashion, reaching the jetty some ten to fifteen minutes after Poetboy and Old School. As I approached, there were a few people gathered around on the jetty. Apparently I had just missed THE REAL LIFE DUGONG that it seems did exist in somewhere other than my child’s colourful imagination. At this point I felt like, well, a bit lot of an arse. Someone official looking took it upon himself to explain to me that a little hook like that wouldn’t hurt the Dugong and that it had been fine and in good health; I nodded and smiled at the right times, cheeks burning from shame that I had disbelieved my son when he required my help and from the shock that my son had in fact managed to hook a Dugong.

As we prepared the FunBus and the White Knight a couple of days later for our departure, my motivation to move on had waned. Not so much because I didn’t want to leave Shark Bay, but because due to some weather warnings and time restraints, we had decided to definitely head south again instead of pushing further north. It was part of the plan that had been discussed and changed and discussed some more since we first left Perth, but to know that our trip was now homeward bound, took much of the wind from my sails. Nonetheless, we were headed back to Kalbarri so the children would be thrilled.

So as we cleaned and fixed and folded, turning our little homes into vehicles once again, the familiar shape of Poetboy came running from the Jetty. He was red faced and panicked [again]. “Oh Lordy, what now?” I asked no one in particular.

Poetboy threw his fishing rod at the ground, and as it bounced awkwardly, he threw his bucket down after it and started to scream and wail and shout. Patchouli who was closer in proximity to this spectacle than I, tried to approach him, but somehow this evoked more screaming and shouting and finally he turned on his heel and marched away toward the main street of Denham.

“He’s been bitten or stung” Patchouli informed me. Someone had said that it was a Stonefish. This wasn’t good. Old School calmly instructed me to take Poetboy to the local hospital/medical centre. “Great idea in principal” I thought, but first I would have to find him and calm him enough that he would get into the Funbus. Baby J and I followed Poetboy’s path down the street.

Poor Poetboy

A short time later, we were at the medical centre and were being seen to by a lovely nurse. She had informed us that as Poetboy had calmed down somewhat by the time that she had met him, that it wasn’t a Stonefish spike. Through Poetboy’s description and the symptoms, it turned out that he had been stung by

Spikey!

a Black Trevally (Happy Moment)*. Poetboy sat patiently whilst he was being treated. His hand was throbbing, his entire arm was numb from the poison and his vision was affected (temporarily). We left with him dosed up on painkillers, his arm in a sling and a prescription for antibiotics. Denham had certainly left it’s mark on this family, in exceptionally different ways.

Baby J at Monkey Mia

Anyone that has spoken to me at any length will usually be subject to my somewhat unpopular view that all human relationships are transient.  On a trip such as this however, there is no disputing that none of us are looking for permanence – the whole point of this trip is to keep moving on.  That is not to say that we shouldn’t meet wonderful people and make connections…this is also surely part of the plan; this was demonstrated beautifully by meeting Syrup in Kalbarri and indeed briefly connecting with the couple at the S bend who were the very epitome of human kindness.  Monkey Mia, on our perusal through bleary sleep deprived eyes, the morning after our midnight arrival, seemed a hotbed of friendly people, everyone taking time to say “good morning” and smiling happily, I guess it’s just the kind of place that lifts one’s heart.  Patchouli made her usual bee-line for the camp kitchen at daybreak and as I struggled to make my eyes, legs and voice work in my best impersonation of a human, she was already making friends and influencing people.

I should probably take a moment to describe Ms Patchouli Girl’s nature.  Travelling with her has been an extension to my already vast knowledge of her ability to talk to just about anyone about just about anything.  My Englishness sometimes creeps in when we meet anyone together as I cringe (unwarrantably usually) at her candour and seeming abundant pleasantness.  Patchouli thinks nothing of stopping the most aloof women in the street to compliment them on their “beautiful skirt/hat/smile/eyes” [delete as necessary]; beautiful men are flirted with respectfully; children are cooed and their parents complimented on their wonderful offspring….you get the picture, she makes being nice her profession.  Whilst sometimes this friendliness is misconstrued, for the most part it means that her phone is packed full of hundreds of numbers of new friends and contacts, all made with the smile and forwardness of this gorgeous woman with balls of steel and the sweetest heart you could hope to imagine.

So, the first morning of our Monkey Mia experience, whilst I was rubbing the sleep from my eyes; Patchouli was learning to make Pita Bread, taught by some young Northern European girls who frequented the disgusting shack of a camp kitchen whose main attraction for me were two resident Golden Orb spiders, each the size

a golden orb spider

of a child’s hand (the females really do have lots of smaller male counterparts whom are lucky to get laid, and then in 60% of cases are eaten during or after sex…fascinating!).  Anyway, food being Patchouli’s obsession passion, equal in importance to dancing, flirting and singing, being taught to make proper Pita bread (which she could then use in her delicious Gozleme) was an exciting moment for The Girl.  Cooking lesson duly taught/learned, we were just about to learn a new, somewhat harder one.  As Patchouli returned later that day to the kitchen, the same girls sat whispering behind their hands and laughing…Patchouli with her usual candour and realising that these people were being most unkind about her, asked what she had done to either offend or amuse them.  My poor sweet friend was most bemused.  My heart raced and my cheeks burned hot at the thought of the hurt that she must feel at their unwarranted snub.  Lesson learned: not everyone is a sweet as they may seem.  As Patchouli tried to put the glitch in the glorious day behind us, we headed to the beach.

The beach at Monkey Mia is truly spectacular, particularly on a scorching hot day such as this one.

Femme, Baby J and SunGod

Obviously a huge pull for all visitors to the area is the promise of the now famous friendly dolphins that visit the shore daily.  We were under the impression that we would be too late to meet the dolphins that day, so we set about wading through the shallows, tiny fish darted around our legs as we cooled ourselves and watched the children splash and play – such confident, beautiful boys, talking to and charming everyone that they met.  Soon Poetboy had set about finding “Pipis” having been shown how to grind his heel into the wet sand of the shallow ocean and find them lurking just beneath.  A good looking man, renting out the pedalos and glass bottomed boats on the beach lent Poetboy and his brothers a bucket and they all set about doing the “Pipi wiggle”.  It was funny to see them grinding away in their own individual styles…hips swaying from side to side in their quest for these little shelled creatures.

A crowd gathered some way away which prompted Elmo to take Baby J to investigate.  A dolphin was chilling by the shore so naturally, Baby J stood next to him and stroked his fin…something that he vehemently denies doing as though it was wrong to treat this magnificent wild animal as a pet…his mother’s eco-neurosis showing through perhaps.  It was a tick in the box for the parent in me however – who doesn’t travel to Monkey Mia without promising the kids Dolphin action?!

Patchouli had meanwhile struck up conversation with Good Looking Boat Man, who was from that conversation onward, affectionately nicknamed Old School for his groovy shirt and hat and inability to throw a young couple’s newfangled throwing toy with any great panache!

Later, with promises to meet Old School for some beers at our camp after the children were asleep, we left the beach, scorching our feet on the sand as we went.  Patchouli had sniffed out a fantastic alternative camp kitchen (there’s a nod to that obsession again) and I set about cooking dinner.  Suddenly an english voice that I recognised, chimed behind me.  My heart fell into my stomach as I turned to see one of the only people I have ever had any kind of disagreement with in my adult life…all the way up here in Monkey Mia. Shit! What the hell was he doing here?

“Hello” my voice said without my permission.  “uh, hi” his articulate response.  “you don’t remember me do you?”. He looked me up and down.  “nah”.  I told him how we had met previously (a funny story actually, that happens to be recorded on CCTV footage from a music venue in Perth and retold by the security guys as the best put down from a woman to a sleezebag that they’ve ever seen…but that tale’s for another time).  Recognition flew across his face and he turned away.  Later I saw him with the unkind Northern Europeans…good luck to them all I say.

On the nice side of town (our site) an hour later, I was finishing a beer whilst Patchouli lovingly washed coconut oil out of my eye for me that I had inadvertently administered in a clever move a few moments before.  All things considered, I gave up on the evening and headed to my bunk in the Funbus and slept like a baby – a real baby; that is that I woke every two hours as it was so hot.

Delirious from two nights of lousy sleep the next morning,Monkey Mia still held her magic and as I slid down from the FunBus onto the white sand below, I couldn’t help but smile.  A huge, ridiculous, cat that got the cream, pig in shit, stupid smile that stretched every muscle in my face.  Waking up in Monkey Mia is a tonic for any malaise.  It took me a moment of self absorbed contentment to remember that Patchouli had lifted the children from the window of the bus some minutes before and taken them to (yup, you guessed it) the kitchen for some breakfast.  Off I ran for some tea and porridge like a good little grinning maniac.

Later that day Old School decided that we were to do some proper sightseeing and took us to the hot

Old School, Poetboy, SunGod and Logan

springs where some of the boys and Patchouli spent time spraying each other with a hose whilst Old School spent time playing Frisbee with the remainder of our crew, turning out to be, unsurprisingly quite the decent shot with an old school Frisbee.

At a barbecue on the foreshore at Denham, we watched Poetboy having time away out in the ocean on a pontoon, jumping into the ocean with some locals, amongst which were Old School’s beautiful children.  This wrapped up a day that could quite reservedly be described as perfect.  After saying goodbye to our new friends, we trailed back to Monkey Mia after dark, taking care to avoid our

Pontoon at Denham

old friends the “clever kangaroos”.  With no casualties to report, we sat up half of the night talking – after all, we’d barely slept at Monkey Mia, what was the point of starting now?

my view...not half bad

Patchouli and I signalling to each other the whole journey, through hand gestures and excited whoops whenever we both successfully overtook the Grey Nomads and Roadtrains who were also traversing this well beaten path to Monkey Mia.  There are two roadhouses that are well known along this route – The Billabong and The Overlander.  There is a very good reason that these are well frequented stops for old, young, rich, poor, families, roadtrains and backpackers alike when taking this trip…that being that they are the only two facilities available.

It often occurs to me that it must take a special kind of person to work at a Roadhouse, politely (or not) dealing with a vast array of customer whilst being seemingly cut off from any permanent support network of their own.  One such woman I spoke to leaves her son with family and travels hundreds of kilometres to work for weeks at a time, another owned the Roadhouse and was permanently existing within this strange world of flux. I intend that much of my research for the impending documentary be centred around the very question “who are these people and why do they choose to work in a Roadhouse?”.  There must be some great reward, I hope that I come to realise what it is.

We made good time to the Billabong Roadhouse.  Unaffected yet by fatigue or boredom, the children clattered into the building, noisily, barefoot and dusty as though they had been coming here everyday of their lives; the man behind the counter greeting them warmly despite the alarm that such a scene could cause your average shopkeeper.  With snacks purchased, bathrooms used and staff mildly amused by our tribe and their antics, Patchouli and I pow-wowed and decided to push on to the Overlander before feeding the masses, choosing to “put the beds down” there by which time it would be dark and the children could sleep whilst we drove.

“Putting the beds down” has become a phrase used on this trip on a daily basis.  For myself, it means that the headrests of the three rows of seats in the Funbus are removed and all of the seats are laid flat to create a huge mattress effect.  Fleece Blankets are thrown over the newly built bed and duvets and pillows are laid out in rows to accommodate each passenger.  This is something we would normally do at our destination, preferring that the children travel in a safer upright position, however on the occasion that we are still driving at 10pm and the boys are all sat bolt upright with hours of driving to go, I have a plan B which is to “Put the beds down”, place the bedding in the positions of the traditional seating arrangement and to use the seatbelts as one normally would, with each child having at least the lapbelt to hold them tightly.  It’s not ideal, but it works.

At the Overlander, we made the beds and set about cooking our first really shitty meal of the trip.  Patchouli and I are vegetarian and into our “whole foods” in a fairly big way.  Tonight though, to the delight of the under tens on the trip, we were cooking Instant noodles in a cup.  This was, contrary to our intention, in fact an exceptionally labour intensive task…parked far, far away from the Petrol Station area (infact some way down the road) of the roadhouse, we lit and used the camp oven (dubious and debatable protocol when the last thing we wanted was to irritate the managers of our only stop before Monkey Mia, but hey, we did what we had to do) . Due to the fairly high winds and unprotected nature of our location, the water we needed for the MSG filled rubbish that we intended to subject our excited little people to, took an AGE to boil and needed constant supervision, not to mention the sheer volume of food that was required to fill seven hungry bellies…it was all a bit dull and by the time we had eaten, we were glad to throw the cups in the bin and get going.

We had been lovingly informed whilst in Kalbarri, that Kalbarri roos are stupid and all over the road.  “Don’t worry, when you get to Shark Bay, you’ll see that there are barely any out..they have clever roos up there”.  It seemed like an odd statement, but low and behold, the theory seemed to be working.

Ah, if only someone had told us about the rabbits.

The first rabbit we saw hopped out, Patchouli slowed down and he hopped off.  The second did the same and the third, the fourth etc. This sounds peachy except the each hopped out around ten seconds after the other.  We were already travelling at reduced speeds to keep watch for the clever Kangaroos, but this was getting silly.  Soon, a break in the pattern and we were on our way.  Suddenly a solid dark shape spun infront of my wheels. Round and Round, spin spin.  I let it pass between my wheels, lifeless and finally still. A rabbit. Our first casualty. Patchouli must have hit it on the front bumper and it came hurtling back through her wheels to greet me, already dead.  Poetboy was awake when this happened and devastated to have seen it.  We had a long meaningful talk about life and death which in truth was not really what I was after whilst trying to avoid a repeat performance of the roadkill, but it was important to discuss with him and it stopped the sobbing.

When a so-called “clever roo” bounced out some minutes later, Patchouli was already so alert and intent on avoiding any more of our smaller targets, that it was a breeze to avoid him.  In our stationary vehicles, it was actually very peaceful to see the roo tut and roll his eyes at the stupid humans trying to use his road after dark, then bounce off.  “D’ya wanna go back for a look at him?” hollered Patchouli out of her window, taking on the tourguide role to her wide eyed English friend.  “Nup, I have seen a roo before you know” my reply, “alrighty then, on we go!” she chirped out of her window, grinning back at me.  She needn’t have worried, we saw many many Kangaroos following the first.  We slowed and started, stopped and started, limping our way toward our goal.  Finally, the inevitable happened and even though she had slowed right down, Patchouli clipped a roo on his back leg. He looked fairly angry about the whole thing but wholly unhurt…he hopped off and we willed the rest of the animals to just stay away from the big white cars, purlease?

The roos seemed to hear our plea, they were clever up here after all.  The rabbits not so much.  Patchouli has a theory that rabbits when they are depressed, do not jump off bridges or blow their brains out with daddy’s shotgun…no, they wait for cars to come and leap whole heartedly at the bumper.  I wouldn’t agree but for the nature of these Kamikaze rabbits.  They were to be seen to be believed. First of all they came one at a time, then in a move similar to space invaders, they started coming more quickly and in twos…one for Patchouli, one for me.  I didn’t hit any, however poor vegetarian, animal loving, sweet natured Patchouli hit another two.

It was a relief to pull into a silent Monkey Mia, cloaked in darkness, welcoming us with her warm breeze and rhythmic crash of the ocean.  It was nice also to have a welcoming party of one too – “Irish”, who showed us to our site…but more about the people of Monkey Mia another day.

The open road brings me much joy, particularly when I have my precious cargo onboard, sharing each moment.  The short time that it took to reach a well known Fuel Stop in Greenough, on the S bend was all it took to allow any residual negativity for having seemingly waited around at Dongara for longer than we had reckoned, to be blown forcefully out of my open window.  At the S Bend we were met by a genial couple who had just taken over the management there.  We filled our tanks with well priced fuel (a rarity as one moves northward) and talked to the couple about our roadtrip.  They were thrilled to help us, even taping my rear view mirror for me, that had decided to bounce it’s way out of any recognisable driving position.  Drinks and treats for the children purchased, we fare welled them as friends and promised to try to stop in on the way back.

Next Stop:Gero.

Geralton is an easy town to negotiate and we bought mobile phones for Poetboy and Elmo, new SIM cards, thongs, hats and lunch.  Whilst we were there, Patchouli’s phone rang and lo and behold, the Geralton branch of her bank had received her card.  We had honestly given up on ever collecting it and had thought that she was going to have to make other financial arrangements – need a couple of 30 something skimpy’s anyone?!

Pit Stop over, we headed to Kalbarri.

When the world was created, be it by snake, god or science, something went very right at this part of the Western Australian coast.  As we pulled into Kalbarri, an overwhelming sense of peace washed over me, the ocean breeze cooled my skin whilst the ocean itself roared up to me, lifting my heart and prompting tingles of euphoria to flutter through my body.  This is why we had started this journey.  To feel W.A and to know it a little.  The children were quiet as they gazed out of the window, overawed and delighted at the scene before them.

Our campsite also, was this time furnished with a better view.  Instead of our old faithful Grey Nomads, we were positioned between an empty site, a lovely English couple in a chalet and opposite a handful of attractive young Aussie fishermen.  Not the hardest s

Femme and Baby J

cenery change we’ve ever had to endure.

Kalbarri welcomed us.  As my feet touched her sand, I felt instantly at home as though I had been there

before.  Patchouli was in agreement, though she has been to Kalbarri before, making me the dreaming one among us.

On a whim, we looked up someone whom Patchouli had known many years ago, we found her in her Health Food shop and Cafe, the business that she had started when Patchouli was here last.  Having lived here thirty years or more, Syrup knows everyone and anyone that passes through town likes to think that they know her.  Regardless of the fact that such notoriety can surely make a person cagey, she welcomed us with open arms, talking animatedly with Patchouli about the last ten years and showing myself and the children her photos which are all around the shop.

Syrup's Health and Gourmet Store

We left that day knowing that we had made a friend in this town and I was reminded that there is no feeling to replace the one where you truly connect to another person in some way.  Poetby returned the next day to work in the shop, whilst the rest of us packed away the Funbus and The White Knight, overlooking the beach where Elmo had run into a friend and was merrily paddling a boat around the shallows.

To say that it was hard to leave Kalbarri is a huge understatement, but as this was still supposed to be only one stop on our journey, we packed and left, in the knowledge that we would roll back through on the homeward journey.

leaving Kalbarri

Femme Fontanelle and Baby J

L-R Elmo, Loonie and Poetboy

Although we didn’t utilise Dongara as much as we could (or maybe should) have, it is a truly beautiful place with a positive energy of calm and safety.  It’s pretty, coastal, quiet and perfect as long as you don’t want to do too much, which is the aim of many [other] people’s holidays after all.  The Caravan Park we stayed in was a worthy tribute to the proverbial blue rinse and we soon coined it Grey Nomad Land.  Now, it would be uncharitable not mention that every Nomad we came across was thrilled to see five “handsome little chaps…so full of energy” and not one person was outwardly in the least bit distressed at periodic hollers from Patchouli and I across to the playground (25 yards away from our site) that really fighting is NOT nice and they’ll all be in Time Out if it continued.  Badly behaved parents that we were seeming to be, we misread the map which showed us where we should park our vehicles and so although near our power station, we ended up actually parking on the edge of the children’s recreational area.  Sad but True.  It was made clear to us that no one minded, particularly as it meant that our babies were safely playing just yards from us at anytime.  Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little like trailer trash and started to mentally rename the boys accordingly; overall though,  Billy Bob, Jim Bob, Bubba, Eminem and Elvis were exceptionally well behaved.  Well behaved enough to earn a group trip to

SunGod

the pub in true Trailer Park fashion, so off we traipsed.  A couple of beers later and Patchouli was marveling the video jukebox and it’s display of a young Bruce Springsteen “doing his thing”.  I was busy excitedly reading the posters on the door that both Freya Hanly and Toby were touring the coast at the same time as us, wondering if maybe we might catch a show whilst we were away – after all, two weeks without a single gig is difficult for an addict like me.  Onto the park, where the children worked off their beers* on the roundabout and such like, we felt that we had probably “done” Dongara in a shallow and entirely uneducated way, but had seen as much as we had intended to.  We made plans to leave.

Patchouli

Queue the next change to our plans.  Baby J made friends with a Bee.  That is to say, he decided to pick one up to bring to show me the “Little Bumble Bee”.  Needless to mention, the Bee wasn’t that fussed about coming to say hello and stung the poor shocked little bundle of red face and tears that appeared before me a moment later.  Half an onion and a dose of Antihistamine later and Baby J was rocking and rolling.  Literally.  He was wasted…that Antihistamine is some good shit.  So we decided to stay another night, organise some new phones (our network doesn’t work for most of the coast from here on in) and check in with the bank who still don’t seem to be able to find Patchouli’s ATM card anywhere.

Onward.

* lemonade doesnt sound as amusing.

So…we are on our way.

Leaving Perth was more of an ordeal than any of us could have expected. On the eve of a full moon, we packed up The Funbus and The White Knight, for what has been a hugely anticipated trip. Whilst I spent time checking tyres and boxing up supplies, Patchouli was having an interesting conversation with the bank manager who had managed to send her ATM card to the wrong address. Any seasoned traveller (or indeed anyone with half a brain) knows that without access to one’s funds, the trip can’t happen. Eventually she arranged to have a new card sent to Geralton – a town that previously we had decided to travel through on day one or two without much more than a cursory glance and perhaps a little lunch. These new developments meant that we were going to have to travel to this point both later and for longer than we had planned, however, with much enthusiasm, we simply changed the plan…it was after all, not a plan set in stone.

So here I sit in Dongara, around 65 km form Geralton, under a full moon typing a blog for which I have no internet connection in order to post; but considering how I got here, this is the least of my concern. After the bank shenanigans, which were hyper-stressful for Patchouli, we eventually found the road beneath our tyres and headed for the outskirts of the city.  Filling up with fuel, some funny bastard thought he would nod at Patchouli’s [brand new] tyre and comment “you know you’ve got a really big screw through your tyre there don’t you, love?”.  Only he wasn’t a funny bastard. In any case, he wasn’t joking.

It was 5pm.  We raced to Patchouli’s “tyre guy” and she smiled and batted her [extraordinarily long by the way] eyelashes until he willingly replaced the tyre in a speedy pit stop style.  Unfortunately, we were already 5 hours behind schedule before we had even encountered this particular spanner screw in the works, so we were pushed for time as to where we should make our first stop.

After a short phone call and a dinner gleaned through the power of Drive Thru (despite the plethora of health food aboard both the Funbus and The White Knight alike), it was arranged that we stay at a friends’s property just outside of town, full of the wonders of country life for the children to feel that we were “on our way”, including horses and chickens, blue tongued lizards and snakes; close enough for us to reach and organise the beds in the car/bus before both the adult members of the party fell asleep in a heap from the exhausting nature of the day; on our way North on the Brand Highway; but most importantly, a friendly sanctuary where, incidentally we were all spoiled rotten with cooked breakfast and teas and coffees at the very hint of thirst.

So the next day we drove with nothing more than the excitement of knowing that we were on the road, finally; with no plan except to turn around at Coral Bay…probably; with the sun beaming down on us so hard that my right arm is already browner than my left; with the notion that anything is possible, we just have to want it badly enough. So here I sit. Wanting a night’s sleep like never before, yet longing for the morning as though I was a child on christmas eve.

Yes folks, on closer inspection, the invitation to party to the funky sounds of The Sneaky Weasel Gang in Pinjarra revealed that it was indeed not only a fundraiser, but fancy dress too.

It’s 8pm on Friday night and Patchouli Girl and I are driving in convoy through the darkness to attempt to catch the set that we are already two hours behind schedule to see.  Three out of four of my children are asleep whilst wearing full “Emo-Goth-Rock” ish type garb [their choice, not mine] and smudging black eyeliner all over the Funbus in the process; Poetboy has gotten himself all into character and is blaring My Chemical Romance lyrics at me over the top of my beloved Triple J.  It’s all starting to feel like a fairly bad idea to have attempted such a late night with five children in tow in the first place.  Ms “Soul” (Patchouli) and Master “Country and Western” {SunGod) are in the car ahead of us, SunGod also catching some zeds whilst Patchouli fields calls from The Sneaky Weasel Gang’s management as to where on earth we are and how far away are we really?

I’m starting to feel like a bit of a let-down, particularly as I am not strictly wearing fancy dress…after a wholly conceited chat with Patchouli, I have decided that my usual style reflects my taste in music far more proficiently than a contrived outfit anyway and so I have come as, well, me.  It strikes me that “me” doesn’t feel so impressive now that I am driving with my foot to the floor, in mild panic through the country roads of somewhere south of Perth.

On arrival at Redcliffe on the Murray, the heel on one of Patchouli’s shoes, snaps.  This could have been the moment that we threw our hands up in the air and decided to turn around and drive straight back home, but frankly, we’re tougher than that; so we wake the children and smile winningly at the girls on the door who are gorgeously ooing and ahhing at the boys and their convincing slumber induced Emo-like strops and who sweetly inform us that we are on the guest list and we should just go right in.  Fabulous.  Thank you very much.

So we all danced our way through a set which by some miracle only just started as we weaved our way to the front of the venue.  Things were certainly looking up.

Soul Sista

Patchouli was rightfully turning heads with her black afro and huge hoop earrings and set about cutting some beautiful shapes on the dancefloor.  I was clearly not the only one who had noticed as she later won prizes for both “best dressed” and her groovy moves.

By eleven or so, even the excitement of wearing black nail varnish couldn’t hold the younger members of our party up on their feet, so it was time to drive half an hour or so to the next stop on our journey – a farm whose energy is so spectacularly calm, that it is a wonder that anyone can exist there on a full time basis without falling into a blissful coma.

As we pulled off the dusty red dirt road onto the property, the familiar shape of a large bonfire lit our path as the shadows of both our host and those guests whom were already fully ensconced, flickered, danced and welcomed us in.  Breathing in the clear air tinged with woodsmoke, I couldn’t have been happier that we had not turned home when things had felt so wearing, just a few hours before.  Not only had I witnessed the best set that I have seen the Sneaky’s perform to date (enough old stuff to keep us all happy and bopping away, blended with some amazing new stuff that I’d never heard) amongst a massive and friendly crowd, I was now here in the bosom of a tiny country town with a bottle of red, no phone signal even if I wanted it and some stunningly interesting people to while away the night with.

We spoke of our northward trip and thrashed out some details, warming ourselves by the fire and savouring the immense silence of the night and early morning.  By morning light, our five interestingly dressed little dudes (complete with “morning after” make up)  were awake and eating a  breakfast of porridge beside the still glorious light of last night’s fire.  In the cold of the morning, the porridge would have brought a welcome warmth, though Patchouli and I predictably opted for coffee and a trip to the local store for homemade cookies…

…as we left Dwellingup (not for the last time), my phone whirred into life and I made arrangements to catch up with some friends…the familiarity of which I will have to learn to live without whilst we are on the road.  Here we go…

Luckily for us, Dwellingup, the beautiful small country town an hour and a half south of Perth is home to many of Patchouli Girl’s dearest friends, so for this night at least, we have a friend’s farm to park up at and rest our weary heads after dancing the night away.  This kind of luxury will not be afforded to us when we tread the [for us anyway] less travelled path of the more northerly coast.

So the last couple of days have been peppered with excited and anxious phone calls between myself and Patchouli about details of travel – booking the bus in to have new tyres fitted, sewing together funky curtains to eventually hang in the windows of the Funbus ( that we may sleep away from the prying eyes of strangers), putting together lists of what to take and what to leave, along with cooking up a feast in Kings Park on the barbecues so as to put the children’s mind at rest that we can feed them in the great outdoors sufficiently!

Himself should warrant a mention.  The background story, for those of you who do not already know, is that he is currently ensconced in the Kimberlies, building some huge important road and will be for the next five weeks so will not be joining us.  In summary, this leaves us with a travelling party of seven. Patchouli, Myself, Poetboy (9), Elmo (8), Loonie (5), Baby J (2) and SunGod (3).

Let the fun begin…

In fact, my own travels take time and planning.  Always returning to a base means that the homestead must be maintained in our absence; that responsibilities do not simply ebb away, but become unwieldy and hard to manage through geographical distance.

So much more preparation than I expected is needed to spend anymore than a night alone with one’s bus and the stars… simple considerations such as curtains for the vehicle in which we will sleep and storage for our worldly belongings, are practicalities that have frankly come at the cost of the little sanity which I have left.

Safety is a great weight upon my shoulders as my four young children’s reliance on me on the road is far more than when we are holed up in our middle class suburb in the city.  Furthermore, means to travel comes straight from my pocket and that of husband and young family and no, in our case, the government does not subsidise our adventures.  Insurance, health and safety, which are all fairly straight forward when stationary, become mammoth concerns once the bus you ride in becomes your home.  But for all of these mundane details and that of learning to wash, cook and eat well on the go, the reward becomes all the more sweet.  Because regardless of the planned out nature of the adventure, or the whys and wherefores as to why we have left our comfortable “everyday” in the first place; we get to taste the fresh, unadulterated slice of life many people will never know.

The taste of that which wise and not so wise men alike, describe as “freedom”.