Heavenly Beverley : Good morning, Siberia!

During the night, the wind eased considerably and the temperature plummetted with the open moonlit night. Tucked up in our gazebo, we were none the wiser. In fact, I became so warm that I removed my black woolly hat during the wee hours of the morning as I was in danger of cooking.

Morning greeted us with the buzzing of our flying foes. As we had already constructed the insect version of Fort Knox, they were unable to annoy us up close and personally. We blew raspberries at them and rose at our leisure. After the usual morning routine - tea, coffee, porridge, and ablutions - the Captain was ready for an expedition whilst the air was still cool. I was quite happy in my chair, scribbling away. However his logic for an earlier start was difficult to fault, so I reluctantly lifted my rear end from its comfortable position and answered the Leader's Call to Duty.

Once we were ready with bags, hats, fly nets and water, I had recovered my enthusiasm. We set off on a giant clockwise direction away from our lovely clearing. Michael remembered Siberia from a previous camp as not being overly impressive. And he thought the country had been more open with well-defined tracks and easy navigation. Either he had lost his mind (again) or the excellent winter rainfall had transformed our location. The Goldfields woodland was green and thick, the wildflowers a delight and we began uncovering the metal treasures we were seeking.

Michael's initial disdain was dissipating. And Siberia was throwing up more questions than answers. What appeared to be the town tip was nowhere near the designated townsite. Yet close to the tip were broken bricks and edging of sheds and old tangled chicken wire. Those remains certainly suggested dwellings of some sort. Google Earth and the official town sign vehemently disagreed on Siberia's precise location. Hence, our thorough reconnaissance of the whole area.

We kept walking. And we stumbled on yet another mystery. Tucked deep in the scrub was an elaborate set-up of stone foundations and an adjacent underground tank. The structure rose a metre in the air and four solid wooden posts had stood in each of the four corners. Two of the poles had fallen down. A pattern of wooden pegs had been hammered into the ground. And metal items were scattered all around the intriguing ruins. We poked and fossicked for quite some time, eventually moving on, none the wiser of its purpose, operation or the ghosts who had worked there.

Late morning brought the heat of the day. And our feet were aching. Trusting Michael's instincts, I followed his cross country lead. We sat down on some rather stony ground in the shade next to some lonely diggings. We regretted our inability to materialise a couple of camp stools right when we needed them. More and more, getting older on bush trips was causing us some trials. Sitting down had involved a semi-controlled drop. Getting up was an ordeal. I was aghast and amused at the same moment. Remembering some physio advice for "recovering after a fall", we rolled onto our knees and then pushed ourselves off the unforgiving ground with our gloved hands. Ye Gods, we needed more mod cons for our adventures.

Michael's navigational skills were spot on. Whilst I had absolutely no idea where we were and would have made the Worst Expedition Commander ever, his sense of direction led us right back to our camp. Gratefully, we sank into our chairs in the shade. We had drunk plenty of water so Michael required a cleansing ale. I helped myself to his beer to create a shandy. Feeling pleasantly weary, we retreated to our fly free bed fro an afternoon kip.

Several hours later, we finally awoke. Michael had taken an extraordinary five days to recover his equilibrium. My own disturbances involving spider bites and ambulances had also taken its toll on me and I had needed a long satisfying sleep to catch up. We looked at each other, feeling totally relaxed at last.

We snacked on crackers and cheese and then began a local search for suitable implements to repair and reinforce the fireplace. After the blast of the previous night's uncooperative rock, the boundary iron sheets were sadly wobbly and lopsided. We picked up some metal rods and a small rusted frame, a few bricks and a discarded survey stake. Returning to our camp for the reconstruction of the Six Million Dollar Fireplace, Michael tackled this task with relish whilst I caught up on washing the day's dishes.

Darkness fell and almost immediately, the overstuffed circle of the full moon rose to lighten our surroundings. There was no wind. Whilst I scribed, Michael cooked a smashing dinner of pumpkin pasta with chicken breast. Meal preparation was fast and the results were hot and tasty.

Our evening entertainment was brought by the survey stake which was supposed to be supporting one of the fireplace's iron sheet sides. The stake had dodged consumption by termites. Now, in its moment of glory, it failed to perform its allotted function. Instead of standing to attention, the bloody stake caught fire. Michael doused it with water and gave the offending stake a severe lecture about its deficit of work ethic.

And so, on an absolutely perfect October night, we sat watching the stunning spectacle of the full moon, enjoying the warmth of a crackling fire and listening to the Goldfields' night sounds. A single owl hooted loudly at our presence. We'd had a wonderful day.