Heavenly Beverley : July 2018

Tuesday 31 July 2018

Odyssey Oddities

We woke on our last morning away. In Mukinbudin. We had loved this place - for her friendliness, living history, beautiful scenery and the smack-in-the-face optimism of most people we'd met. But we were finally ready to mosey on home.

The caravan park, expertly managed by Caz, with a willing helper currently in Kim (who lived in the large pink and white bus with Blondie, her dog) had been a delight. Great facilities including a woolshed themed huge sheltered campers' kitchen, BBQs, clean ensuite ablutions, cabins, plenty of shade, adjacent to the oval and a location right next to the local swimming pool. Meeka was home to Anna Johnson but Muka had Caz and Kim...

We chose to return to Heavenly Beverley via Trayning, Kellerberrin and Quairading. The first tiny town we passed through was Kununoppin. There was not a soul about on a Friday afternoon. Soon afterwards, we drove past the quite impressive and well-populated cemetery. Before I could stop myself, I dropped a characteristic clanger. "Look Michael", I exclaimed, "There are more people dead in Kukunoppin than there are alive!" I'm afraid I also laughed...

Trayning didn't thrill us either. We looked vainly for any establishment that might offer a late lunch. Epic fail. So, we drove onto the bright lights of Kellerberrin. Bang in the middle of the main drag was Succulent Foods. Open six days a week, we bought and then devoured two delicious Turkish rolls stuffed with a myriad of yummy ingredients. What a find.

A final treat was Yoting Road en route to Quairading. Passing massive granite outcrops including Mount Sterling and Kokerbin Rock was completely unexpected. We had no idea that our backyard in the Wheatbelt held such fantastic scenery. We made a note to stay at the nearby Kwolyin Camp next time we were in the vicinity, hopefully during this coming spring.

Once we passed Quairading on familiar territory, I began to muse on the Great Truths I had discovered over the course of our twenty-five-day adventure.

And so, in no particular order, I shall elaborate on the quirky, the confounding, the humorous and the infuriating that belted me metaphorically over the head at surprisingly frequent intervals -

None of Digger's indicators should be relied upon as gospel, without another source of confirmation. (The Disaster of the Water Tanks)
A hot water service will be most unhappy if asked to operate without water in the tanks. (How to Fry your Hot Water Heater and Other Useless Hints)
Caravan handover spiels are conducted by caravan salesmen...we were cheerily assured that our television aerial would be adequate in most country towns. We needed a satellite dish. (The Case of the Antenna Debacle)
Watertight doors and hatches should be checked as CLOSED before moving on. Seeing a skylight hatch merrily flapping in the breeze did not augur well. (The Catastrophe of an Internal Pilbara Tsunami)
Silicone, WD40 and duct tape are essential equipment, as is a Stanley knife, at least two entrenching tools and two types of gloves, both disposable and riggers'. A frypan can also come in handy as a deterrent to unwanted visitors. (The MacGyver Chronicles)
Nail polish can act to hold screwed-in knobs for drawers, cupboards and overhead cabinets. A dollop may prevent the knobs from flinging themselves all over Digger and becoming a slipping risk. (Alternatives to Banana Peel For Foiling Your Enemy)
Diligently read every owners' manuals and instructions and memorise to heart. Then realise on the road that these Messages from the Advertising Gods are the stuff of nonsense and totally useless. (Would You Trust These Politicians?)
Awning designs are unnecessarily complicated, the work of the Devil and designed to confuse relatively intelligent people. (The Awnings of Wrath)
Driving with a caravan required intense concentration by Michael. That is why we limited our kilometres to around three hundred a day. Or less if possible. (Staying Alive Whilst Towing a Caravan)
Free camping areas are a mixed blessing. Often crowded, the toilet facilities may be questionable, wash basins missing in action and littered with unwelcome and unsightly rubbish. (How To Be Antisocial in a Caring, Sharing Way)
We watched other caravaners leave early from Beasley River with a Fixed Steely Gaze that alerted us they would be driving to the next set location at all costs. As a result, they missed out on the Parabadoo Volunteer Firies setting up their Driver Revivor/Survivor stand. (Adam's Unfortunate Hangover and Other Firefighting Tales)
We forgot the padded toilet seat for emergency usage in the bush. Never again. (Michael Does Not Squat and Other Outback Stories)
We watched in amused amazement at both men and women stressing over the state of their vehicles and caravans, wiping off the dirt and dust and actually washing the exteriors in country where water is scarce. Lily and Digger are still wearing their Pilbara colours with pride. (Salmon Pink is the New Black)

And so, we are home again in Station House. Our bed is quite divine as Michael can stretch out to his full height - not possible in Digger. I have renewed my love affair with the dishwasher.

And *whew*, we returned to Beverley in time to watch the Masterchef finale on the telly.

Until our next expedition.

Farewell to Mukinbukin

Wheatbelt surprises.

Monday 30 July 2018

Where On Earth Is Mukinbudin?!

We decided to stay in Mukinbudin as a joke. Back in the day when Callum was a totally hip young thing, he travelled to Mukinbudin in his capacity as a ballroom dance teacher. His brief was to teach the youngsters at the District High School to dance for their coming social. For an entire week. He was mortified that his mobile had no signal and he was reduced to using the public telephone booth. Plus, he had no idea that there were places smaller than Beverley until he arrived in Mukinbudin. He did his time and I am delighted to say that he now enjoys camping with his beloved bride-to-be and would probably return voluntarily to Mukinbukin now that he isn't entirely a city slicker.

Anyway, there we were in Mukinbudin and had already decided to stay a second night. In a town of two hundred and seventy odd residents, Cooper's Crossing was a revelation - an upmarket gift shop that had been operational for around twenty years. The current front-of-house, Frank was a local farmer who has taken over the business from his daughter who currently was engaged in family matters. A charming bloke, I bought fifty dollars of presents without Frank having to lift a finger. Cooper's Crossing sold itself.

Amy, a local kitchen products franchisee, was strutting her stuff outside the Mukinbudin IGA doing her bit to help drought-affected farmers in New South Wales with a raffle organised by one of the rural volunteer groups. Great cause so I bought a raffle ticket and chatted at length with Amy, before photographing her.

The Mukinbudin Cafe, now run by off-again on-again resident Clare was a great eating spot. Loathing having her picture taken, I was reduced to snapping her at high speed. Clare told us an amazing story of her life in and out of Muka and dropping into the cafe was definitely worth hearing her journey.

Finally leaving the town after trying for ninety minutes, we drove the short distance to the original wheat silo for yet another photo opportunity. Then we set out in search of the Wattoning settlement. On the way, we were utterly seduced by Cleomine, another tiny dot which boasted a homestead, a pioneering family and an earlier version of Black Caviar, who had also gone by the name of Cleomine. The Muka Men's Shed had produced a sculpture of in 2015, honouring this famous horse from literally the middle of nowhere.

Wattoning was so much more than the literature. There was nothing left of the original homestead and the wells were carefully covered to prevent idiot tourists from falling in. However, the gnamma holes (natural depressions in the granite rock) were impressive. And then we noticed the glint of glass and metal beyond in the nearby scrub.

We fossicked for a good hour. The objects we collected were of a later period than we usually found. I picked up a cracked but intact pink teacup (perhaps 1950s?) and photographed two garden concrete ornaments from the same era. There had been several houses at Wattoning and at least one of them was inhabited by a ladylike persona.

We chose our last stop to be Mangowine Homestead, south-east of Mukinbudin. This had been the abode of the Adams family and its formidable matriarch Jane, who raised eleven children there. The family had added a wayside inn for travellers during their tenure and a cellar (jail?) to restrain undesirable types.

We spent an hour and a half traipsing around the property, thoroughly appreciating every detail. Only when we realised that we'd dallied well beyond the official four o'clock closure did we say a reluctant farewell.

We'd seen fantastic granite outcrops and vast landscapes of the wheat crop, spectacular squalls and the winter sun valiantly peeping through the heavy clouds. We arrived back in town for a splendid pub meal before retiring to our last night in Digger.

Will we return to Mukinbudin? Absolutely!