Heavenly Beverley : A Return To Relative Relaxation...

After all the frenetic activity of the previous day, we decided that a low key morning was in order. I rose at almost the crack of dawn (about eight o'clock) whilst Michael slept on, the boy in him clearly visible. The man suit is no disguise when he's asleep.

I eventually woke him after ten by whacking his belly with the fly swat. A recalcitrant flying fiend had been whizzing around the caravan in a most annoying fashion. I chose his landing spot of Michael's verandah to give the pesky insect the old one-two. Unfortunately, I missed and Michael woke with a bit of a start, but he was surprisingly unmoved at the nature of his arousal.

Following Michael's sudden rise to consciousness, we then proceeded to do very little. Tea, coffee, breakfast, washing dishes and clothes. I have fallen in love with my washing machine. Not only do I know what is lurking in its not-terribly-deep trough, unlike some caravan park washing machines, it also plays chirpy tunes whilst being turned on and off. We are regularly regaled with "London Bridge Is Falling Down" at the conclusion of its cycle. Somewhat offbeat and right up our alley of humour.

Eventually, we trundled off in Lily to Cossack. What a change from the previous day. A handful of visitors was enthusing their way through the exhibition. There was room to move and admire. There was no doubting the majesty of the twenty-seventh Cossack Art Awards, and that was its problem, in my opinion. The exhibition was totally up itself and not well displayed.

Firstly, the programme was disjointed and difficult to navigate. The paintings' numbers were often hidden below the works, meaning one had to perform a dive in the pike position in order to read them. Then the sections were in no order, so we would often have to stop and flip through the entire programme to match numbers to paintings. Thirdly, Michael's catalogue ( and a great many others) were missing a hefty chunk, which caused unnecessary confusion. Obviously, nobody had bothered to check that the catalogues were actually complete.

Finally, the exhibition was beyond the means of the average person. There was one picture out of the entire collection that I really loved and could afford. Plus, all the outstanding paintings had already been snaffled, and I suspect this occurred on Opening Night, which of course was not available to the Great Unwashed such as ourselves. And the winning entries, on the whole, caused my eyebrows to disappear into my hairline.

Hmmm. So, we consoled ourselves with a delicious lunch at the Cossack Cafe. The staff were cheerful and obliging. Naturally, I found a book to purchase as well. We finally moved on at about three o'clock.

After a spot of fossicking behind the church, we returned to the library. Sam had been waiting all day for us...Oops. We had a quick flick through a wonderful book of early Roebourne. We will probably stop on our way out to buy it and add to our burgeoning number of hardcopy publications we are collecting on this Northern Jaunt.

More photographing and exploration of the town, including the ruined stone bakery. We were intrigued. Michael's grandfather Nicholas Sofoulis had been a baker in the area and his eldest son George had been born in Roebourne in 1918. Although the bakery had later been run by a Chinese chap, we wondered if Nicholas had been an earlier proprietor. Michael's cousin, Faye, George's daughter, is hunting for some family history that may solve this mystery.

We made a quick detour to see if we could get close to the enormous iron ore loaders and ships at Cape Lambert. After being stymied by the security gate, we set off for Point Samson and the caravan for dinner and vino. With no telly, we spent our last evening happily sorting through our photos before retiring to the boudoir.

And today, we are off to Millstream...