Shattered...

The Goldfields dawn, only a few hours after I'd finally gone to sleep, was grey and sullen with the constant threat of rain. I was not feeling very bright either. However, as soon as I was blearily awake, I rang Alex's mobile. He was in the Emergency Department at one of the major teaching hospitals, known as Charlie's. He'd had a drip inserted, bloods taken and a cardiac ultrasound. He was on his back, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for results.

Meanwhile, my foot was a tad wobbly and spotty, but quite functional. As I went to sit in my chair with a steaming cup of tea, I spotted an innocuous tiny black spider scuttling back into one of the joints of my camping chair. Maybe, just maybe, this little creature had been responsible for my world of pain. Normally, I like to live and let live but I was not in a merciful mood. Whether this spider was a local or a hitchhiker from Beverley, he or she was not welcome. After a short prayer, we poured boiling water inside all the chair's joints.

The morning was warming up rapidly. I felt hot and clammy and hungry and a bit surreal. We needed breakfast and a shower. We packed up clothes, towels, meds and toiletries and headed for Coolgardie. On the main drag, "Way Out West" Cafe looked cool and clean and comfortable. Run by two Kiwi sisters and their brother, who was the chef, Elina was on Front of House. We ordered eggs on toast (with bacon for Michael), great coffee and a large revitalising mug of tea for me.Whilst we were sitting in the cafe, the rain began bucketing down, so we took our time. We charged my laptop and my mobile and I checked online for any further updates from Alex in the Emergency room. No more disasters were evident. I heaved a sigh of relief and enjoyed my second mug of tea.

Feeling slightly more awake, we ventured next door to Arthouse 65, owned and operated by Coolgardie local artist, Jacqui Mills. We spent a very pleasant half-hour or so with her, viewing her artwork and discovering her delightful tropical courtyards she had created between her gallery and her house. A most unlikely oasis in the middle of the Goldfields.

We had been planning on driving the forty kilometres to Dunnsville, but I was exhausted. We checked into the showers at the roadhouse and soaked our weary heads. Returning to our camp at Bonnie Vale,  we lay down on the stretcher bed to catch up on some shut-eye. We both instantly fell asleep.

Mid afternoon we woke and sampled a late lunch of cheese, olives and crackers. The heat of the day was lingering, so we embarked on some research, now that Bulong was out of the equation. Michael had camped at Siberia, forty kilometres further north. We'd sailed past the Townsite sign on our first trip. We had not stopped as Michael had been in a nicotine withdrawal frenzy and was driving fairly rapidly in the direction of ora Banda for some fags.

 And, since meeting Brian, we were fired up with a new enthusiasm to Explore Locally. Siberia, what a wonderful name, was deserving of our closer attention for a few days.

Alex reported in via his mobile. Alex's chest pain had been indicative of another episode of pericarditis. Every time he was exposed to a simple virus, like a cold, his heart lining became inflamed, causing symptoms similar to a heart attack. He had been discharged on another medication and was due to meet with the Cardiology team shortly. In the interim, he was cheerful and perky and looking forward to dinner with friends. The resilience of the young.

Eventually, the day cooled and we pottered away from our camp on another trek. We were still tired and didn't walk very far. Donning our hats and bags and carrying water and the essential Rid, we followed our tyre prints back towards our entry off the main track. Surprisingly, there were still treasures to be found, right next to where we had driven.

Returning to camp, we sat in our chairs, watching the approaching storm in the last of the daylight. Ominous clouds were all around us. We'd already fastened the gazebo's "walls" firmly in anticipation of rain. The weather promised more than a few sprinkles of precipitation. This reminded us of the Rogue Storm of Golden Horn.

Rewinding seven years to our very first trip, we had been camped at the very picturesque and abandoned Golden Horn Mine. Whilst enjoying another cool evening at the end of a hot day, an intense storm cell had snuck up on us. I remember cowering on the floor of Michael's work ute, waiting for the apocalypse to consume us. Then as quickly as the storm had threatened us, it vanished to scare the living daylights out of other unsuspecting and unprepared campers.

Back to the present. The sky show was spectacular. Even I was grudgingly impressed. Fork lightning flashed, bursts of thunder rumbled menacingly all around us and frequently heavy squalls of rain persisted after dark. The wind was rising but I was beyond caring. I retired back to bed and knew no more. Michael stayed up to watch the spectacle until he joined me in our snug bed.

An eventful day.

Is it really morning...

Breakfast at "Way Out West" Cafe

Arthouse 65

My ardent wish for that day

Last walk

My reaction to approaching storms

 Goldfields storm

Bulong or Bust...(alternate title) What Bastard bit me?

Our second morning at Bonnie Vale was decidedly warmer. Our old adversaries, the Goldfields flies, were making their presence known. They are particularly sticky, persistent and very annoying. Michael, wearing only his beanie and tee shirt, went off in search of the fly nets. I collapsed into fits of giggles at his attire. Only in the bush. The flimsy appearance of our fly nets does not reflect their vital importance. Once donned over our heads,they are the difference between normal functioning or being driven quite mad. Essential for our camping adventures.

Over tea and coffee, we planned our day. Michael constructed two ingenious wedges out of sandalwood for keeping my troublesome passenger window in the upright position. Using the portable grinder, that most useful of tools on our trips, the job was completed with no fuss and very little wasted time.

Showers were next on the agenda, available at the excellent Coolgardie roadhouse. We decided we'd shout ourselves breakfast there as well. Leaving the trusty trailer and the gazebo on guard, we headed for the bright lights of civilisation. Coolgardie on a Thursday.

Coolgardie rated as one of my favourite towns. Long in the shadow of her big sister up the road, Coolgardie was expanding, due to new and growing mining operations. Yet she still maintained all the charm and quirkiness of a frontier town. Coolgardie had her own unique and developing personality. Her streets were wide, her federation houses and buildings preserved and her very modern roadhouse with its uber clean facilities provided a welcome rest stop for travellers, such as ourselves.

Michael showered first. As he was making himself beautiful, I had plenty of time to watch and be fascinated by passing parade. Perched on a bar stool and gazing outside, I wondered about all their stories. Every vehicle was represented at this servo in the Goldfields - hatchbacks to road trains, caravans to one hundred tonne cranes on trailers, utes to bicycles. Locals arriving on foot, tourists washing their windscreens, truckies grabbing some drinks, workers buying lunch. An unforgettable spectacle of life.

As Michael emerged, I nearly didn't recognise him. Sparkling and splendidly clad in fresh clothes, he was transformed. I didn't dare look at my reflection as I was still resembling the creature from the Black Lagoon. And my shower had to wait. His Majesty was hungry. Two bacon and egg rolls had never tasted so good, washed down with excellent coffee and tea.

Then, my turn for renewal. Oh, the ecstasy. I soaped and lathered and rinsed. Hairstyle by wringer was treated with multiple shampooing and conditioning. Upon drying, the joy of rubbing oodles of cream into my parched skin. And clean clothes which didn't itch, weren't covered in red dirt or smell like a sweaty camp fire. Happy day.

We lingered at the roadhouse, purchasing fuel, a few CDs, waterproof bandaids and a packet of nuts. We even gained possession of the Magic Key, that enabled us to fill our washing water container back to the brim. After nearly two hours, we departed in the direction of Kalgoorlie.

On the thirty-eight kilometres up the road to the Big Smoke, we sat in Kermit's air-conditioned comfort, really noting the landscape as we went by. After our long and animated chat with Brian on the previous day, we recognised points of interest he had shared with us. Suddenly, we were struck by all the history around us, that we had previously driven past on a number of occasions. History that had been revealed by a chance encounter with a local enthusiast. This was a trip to revisit old and familiar locations, not driving hundreds of kilometres and really immersing ourselves in the past.

Still, we had promised ourselves we would check out Bulong, thirty kilometres east of Kalgoorlie. En route we were meeting a couple of friends for a bite of lunch at Blaze, a cafe inside the old fire station in Boulder.

Kalgoorlie is big. In every conceivable way. Big industries with big machinery. Big fuel stations to accommodate big road trains. And big houses on the main road into town. Perhaps these homes were inhabited by prospectors who had struck gold and wanted the world to be aware of their good fortune.

Initially, we parked in central Kal outside the tourism information centre, which is located inside the exquisite Federation town hall. The first sensation was one of coolness, due to the soaring pressed tin ceilings. Breathtakingly decorated, with multiple carved staircases, a cavernous and beautiful theatre, a war museum and an intriguing World War 1 exhibition featuring notable women of the period ("Not all Soldiers wore Khaki"), we were entranced.

Post lunch, we set off for Bulong. This was an early abandoned town and mine Michael had wanted to visit for fifteen years. Brian had assured us that there was plenty to see and fossicking to be had.The majestic Eucalypt woodland called us eastwards. Needless to say, we were filled with keen expectation of much treasures to behold.

The reality was sadly less than our anticipation. We spent a frustrating two hours traversing a tangled web of tracks that went in all directions. Where there was privacy under the cover of the woodland, there was no apparent fossicking. Where we found titbits on metal on the edge of a vast salt lake, there was nothings but desolate openness. Even the majority of this metal was modern - rusting cars and unidentifiable junk. The only major site of interest was the remains of a large condensing plant, which processed salt water to fresh water,  uphill from the lake. But its position was windy and exposed and with absolutely nothing to attract us. We were delighted by a few local inhabitants - a kangaroo watching us from next to a track and two emus, sprinting at full pace across the glimmering surface of the salt lake. This sight was mesmerising whilst the emus were in view, but not enough to convince us to pack up our comfortable lodgings at Bonnie Vale.

Disappointed, we returned back towards Coolgardie. Once more, my passenger window was causing strife, by resisting all our efforts to stay closed, even with the nifty wedges. In the end, this development proved fortuitous. The afternoon had become hot and very oppressive and at the same time, Kermit's air conditioning had ground to a halt. Thus, my open window was rather welcome.

We discussed our options. Bonnie Vale was proving to be far more fruitful in terms of fossicking than we'd dared hope. We decided to continue our stay there for a couple more nights. And then? That was the beauty of our expeditions. Changes were neither disconcerting nor unsettling for us. Changes were eagerly embraced.

Mostly. Except for the proceeding night. All seemed well when we returned to our shady camp to enjoy a cool drink or two. After dinner, I decided to retire early as I was tired. Slipping off my boots and socks, I felt a vicious stab on the side of my left foot. A flying ember? A sliver of glass? A splinter of wood? Or a bite by some tiny unseen foe?

There was nothing to indicate any unwanted occurrence but for a minute red dot adjacent to the ball of my foot. Whatever had attacked me packed a mighty punch. I quickly descended into wave after wave of genuine agony. I was in so much pain that I didn't even contemplate that the bite or sting might be poisonous.

Over the next few hours, Stingose, burn cream and Panadol gave no relief. I began seriously contemplating a trip to an Emergency Department over fifty kilometres away in Kalgoorlie. My last resort was Panadeine Forte. After a whopping sixty milligrammes of codeine, the pain in my foot began to recede. And as my foot had not turned black and I was still alive, I decided death was not imminent. I floated away into the release of sleep.

Then my mobile rang. The time was two-thirty. In the morning. Ye Gods.

Alex was anxious and unhappy on the other end of the line. He was experiencing serious chest pain. This had become a familiar pattern over the last year or so. Born with a complex heart defect, Alex had been developing pericarditis when he caught a cold or another simple virus. Ibuprofen usually settled this pain. Not this night. After two more phone calls, I called an ambulance for him. He was unable to do this himself. Afterwards, I mused that I had called an ambulance six hundred kilometres away from the intended patient. That the ambos found Alex and safely transported him to hospital was quite an achievement for the early hours of that morning. I was pleased with the outcome.

As an aside, I was not impressed with Cardiology's solution to Alex's ongoing pericarditis episodes. Don't get a cold, Alex...Give me strength.

Due to the additional excitement, my foot was completely forgotten. The pitter-patter of raindrops on the gazebo's roof lulled me into slumber. At last.

Coolgardie Town Hall - almost the parliament house if Western Australia had seceded from the rest of Australia

RSL and private residence - Coolgardie

Kalgoorlie Town Hall

And inside

Around Bulong

Lake Yindarlgooda

Remains of the Condenser plant on the edge of the lake

WHAT BIT ME?!

What I couldn't do for myself, but DID do for Alex, from six hundred kilometres away.

Welcome to Bonnie Vale

Our first night was cool, very cool. Due to our arrival right on dusk, we chose the first suitable spot to set up the gazebo and our bed. Fortunately, our sleeping bags kept the chill at bay. My only moments of awareness involved deliberately draping my body around a decidedly cold Michael after he'd returned from necessary nocturnal ablutions. Once Michael's defrosting was concluded, we both fell back to sleep.

Early morning was clear and bright, quiet except for the chirping of the local inhabitants. Sunrise promised warmth, so I scurried around moving boxes into the shade. Leaving the confines of our camp to attend nature's call, I found our first collectable between my feet - a tiny handmade nail. Leaving the padded toilet seat as a landmark, I wandered just out of view of our gazebo's roof for further exploration of our immediate vicinity. Bonnie Vale's fragments were everywhere - bricks, broken glass, shattered pieces of crockery and oodles of metal objects. Scattered amongst all of these artefacts was greenstone - a telltale sign that gold had been present.

We fell quickly back into our camping routine. The dinner dishes were washed and packed away. We commenced breakfast - porridge on the gas hotplate, kettle on our fire. We thoroughly enjoyed our sustenance, and then, earlier than we would usually be organised at the House that Rocks, we set off to search the nearby environs.

Armed with our boots, gloves and carry bags, sensibly dressed in jeans and shirts, with our hats and water bottles, we spent all morning on this very rewarding quest. We stumbled across the town's rubbish tip, quite close to our camp. At the other end of the site, we identified the pub, its cellar and its rubbish heap. We found a veritable treasure trove of metal, which was very surprising given Bonnie Vale's location only fourteen kilometres or so north of Coolgardie. We had expected that Bonnie Vale would have been well and truly picked over with limited metal goodies to collect. Instead, we ended up with very heavy carry bags and hot and weary bodies.

With Michael's excellent sense of direction, we backtracked our way cross country to our camp without any difficulty. We removed our boots and socks and helped ourselves to additional liquid refreshments. After being on our feet for four or so hours, we decided to stay put for the hottest part of the day. Our stretcher bed was looking very inviting for an afternoon snooze.

Just then, we were dismayed to hear the approach of a vehicle.  We were concerned that we would be instructed to Move On. Thankfully this was not to be. Brian rolled up next to our gazebo in his functional, if a trifle battered, Landcruiser ute. Supplying transport to the nearby drilling and rehabilitation programme, Brian's torso was clad in the "uniform" of a high-vis orange shirt and a well-worn cap jammed on his head. Even though I couldn't see his lower half, I suspected that he was sporting work pants and the usual steel capped boots.

He had followed our tracks to discover our intentions. He'd had to deal with both lunatics prospecting with their metal detectors and generally nasty types who quickly found themselves ejected. The area was honeycombed with private mining leases. Once he worked out we were innocently camping and fossicking, he was delighted to stay for a chat - all part of his job.

Brian turned out to be an excellent source of knowledge and wit. Whilst advising us where we shouldn't go (stay away from the next ridge over there as they'll shoot first and ask questions later), he was a fountain of local information, whetting our fossicking appetites.

He was originally from Tasmania, but he outgrew the island. Working his way up in the mining transport industry, first in Port Hedland and now based in Coolgardie, he was in charge of large-scale movements - trucks, machinery and road trains at the Bonnie Vale operations. Married with children, he replied with an emphatic "no" when I asked him if Tasmania would beckon him back. He worked hard and enjoyed the wild western lifestyle. He chain-smoked in front of us and eventually Michael caved in and begged for a couple of fags.

That was the only slight dampener on Brian's visit. He assured us that our location would remain unknown to him or anyone else for that matter. And he told us that the work crews would depart around five and that would be an ideal time to visit Bonnie Vale's original mine shaft, famous for the daring rescue of a trapped miner named Modesto Varischetti in 1907. He even gave us approximate directions from our camp.

In the meantime, we settled down for our nap. The only snag was that the gazebo had lined with the afternoon sun and we were being burnt as we tried to sleep. Without further ado, we decided to move the entire camp lock, stock and barrel  about twenty-five metres into a shadier spot. We repositioned some of our boxes, the groundsheet, and our stretcher bed into the new location. Michael then crawled onto the bed and was instantly asleep. I continued to organise our belongings into their new positions. After Michael surfaced, we completed the relocation of the gazebo over our bed. After further finishing touches, we were ready to venture out towards the old mine.

Needless to say, this wasn't an entirely straightforward exercise. Armed with Brian's directions and vague memories of Google Earth research at home, we set off into a lather of optimistic fervour. A myriad of tracks and absolutely no signage by the Shire of Coolgardie (who were supposed to maintain the old mine as a tourism site) caused us a few headaches. After a series of dead ends, we hit the jackpot. Behind a wire fence with a few neglected information boards was the huge collapsed shaft of the original mine.

The metal was all gone, except for a single stamp head battery base plate. Drawn to this piece like a magnet, it was stunningly rusted, worn into an interesting shape and beautifully coloured. I showed the base plate to Michael. He was instantly in love.

Our information had been sadly lacking in describing this extraordinary site. Apart from the main shaft, which descended twelve levels, there was an almost moonscape of crowded diggings, massive piles of broken rock and surreal hillocks of dirt. Although short-lived, Bonnie Vale had attracted immense interest and obvious profit to those who struck gold amongst the greenstone. Michael, in all his fossicking life, had never seen another abandoned mining area with this numbers of individual shafts. The entire location would have been stripped of vegetation. Now the Goldfields woodland was busily encroaching in and around was must have been desolate and denuded. And Brian, who we'd met earlier in the day, was one of the crew currently revegetating other disturbed parts of Bonnie Vale.

According to the faded and indistinct tourist boards, Bonnie Vale was gazetted in 1897. In 1907, a thunderstorm had flooded the mine and our man Varischetti was trapped in an air pocket on the tenth level. Divers were transported by train to Coolgardie, which broke all speed records for the trip from Perth. A daring rescue took place and Varischetti was brought out alive. The stuff of legends.

There was one other plaque behind the fence, barely legible, a touching tribute to a stillborn baby. We left, not knowing the story behind this sad little memorial and returned to our hidden hollow amongst the trees.

With the setting sun, we enjoyed another of our "surprise" meals I'd brought, a couple of glasses of vino and a sampling of some port. Once happily anaesthetised, Doctor Michael attended to a thorn in my foot. Then, under the glorious theatre of a Goldfields night sky, we retired to our warm bed.

First position of the gazebo @ Bonnie Vale

Part way through the move to the new location

upon awakening and finishing the repositioning

Bonnie Vale's most famous "son"

Further information at the site of the old mine

Still life of shaft and regenerating woodland

Shafts and more shafts

The main shaft @ Bonnie Vale

Through the trees

Goldfields sunset.

And We're Off!

In between sparring on Alex's behalf, we were trying to pack.  And stack. Slowly, Kermit and the Trusty Trailer were filled. We decided later that our organisation was initially appalling and we spent the rest of our trip rectifying our supplies.

The night before departure, I fell into bed, exhausted. Later, I transported a snoring husband from the couch to our bed. For some obscure reason, the rest of my night was filled with very odd dreams.

Upon awakening, I washed dishes and made banana bread to take with us. The car and Trusty Trailer were bulging at the seams. Eventually, at noon, we just locked the front door and fled. In our haste, we even forgot to farewell the dogs.

Exiting Brooking Street, we turned right instead of left. Par for the course. After correcting Kermit's direction, we headed east. At last. The supposed shortcut between Mawson and Cunderdin meandered all over the place. My navigational skills deserted me completely. Along the way, Michael misplaced (temporarily) fifty dollars and I could not, for the life of me, locate a drink that was sitting directly in front of me.

The piece de resistance occurred in Merredin. Michael had painstakingly repaired Kermit's passenger window over two days, so the electric mechanism would enable the aforementioned window to slide smoothly up and down. As we prepared to park on Barrack Street, I engaged the switch to raise the car window in the upward direction. Instead, a fearful crunching, clunking and throbbing ensued and the window ended up resembling a piece of crazy paving in a particularly lopsided fashion.

My darling husband behaved in an entirely predictable fashion. He marched into Cellarbrations and purchased a slab of beer. He nearly succumbed to obtaining a packet of fags. He only relented because of my persistent and logical haranguing.

We drove on through the afternoon. Pink and yellow and white flowers flashed past us. We feared we had would have missed the best of the wildflower season due to the lateness of this trip. Luck was on our side. The cool and rainy winter had translated into a prolonged and delayed display of colour and beauty. And the wheat crop, usually scant and relatively low,  as we neared Southern Cross was looking magnificent. Perhaps this would be the year of a bumper harvest.

We swapped drivers at Southern Cross. The distance to Coolgardie was a mind numbing one hundred and ninety kilometres. Roadworks caused frequent decreases in speed, which only added to our anxiety. We finally arrived in Coolgardie close to dusk and immediately turn Kermit north. In the short fading twilight, we made our target - Bonnie Vale.

Michael took over control of Kermit and manoeuvred him up the track. Just before the last of the daylight faded, we happened upon a lovely site surrounded by the Goldfields woodland we adored. As we unpacked, we were concerned that setting up the gazebo would be fraught with danger. Remarkably, we erected the gazebo with assurance and ease.

The rest of the evening was filled with quiet reverie. The Goldfields sky was filled with glittering stars and a brilliant half moon. We enjoyed dinner and a bottle of vino. Then, overwhelmed by the effort of getting away, we crawled into our deliciously warm and comfortable bed. And slept.

The agony of packing...

Forget your rear view mirror...

Essential supplies...

Niagra, Northern Goldfields...

Goldfields resident...

And our destination, Bonnie Vale.

Climb Every Mountain...

The final thirty-six hours before our eventual escape to the Goldfields from the House that Rocks were hectic, to say the least. Molehills swiftly transformed into the Himalayas. Disaster perpetuated disaster. I felt that I'd somehow landed smack into the middle of the "Sound of Music". Reverend Mother, whom I've always considered slightly terrifying, was belting out "Climb Every Mountain" at full throttle. Toughen up Princess Kate and get your act together. And all this upheaval was caused by a simple phone call from our autistic superstar, Alex. "Mother" he confessed, "I can't get through to Homeswest".

This statement was responsible for opening the Gates of Hell. Alex believed he'd had a missed call from the housing authority and that call may have contained an Offer of Accommodation. Hey, Homeswest doesn't hurry this process. Alex has been on the  public housing waiting list for seven and a half years and the Priority List for two and a half years.

I foolishly promised I'd investigate on his behalf. I was his representative for Homeswest, having completed The Form at the same time he moved onto the Priority List. I rang Homeswest Mirrabooka. Who directed me to Homeswest Perth. Who weren't answering their phones. Apparently, they were Launching a New System, which obviously wasn't going well. So, I rang Homeswest Mirrabooka again and initiated a series of Probing Questions. First snag. Alex's address on their database was incorrect. My boy had innocently assumed Centrelink and Homeswest communicated with each other and his address would be changed automatically. Not an unreasonable thought.

Alex was required to attend Homeswest, change his address in person and Undertake a Review. Oh goody. Better still was to come. The mystery phone call may have been an Offer of Accommodation from Foundation Housing, who assist Centrelink by housing long-term waiting list clients if they have a suitable site through their sources. Except Foundation Housing and Homeswest don't communicate with each other either.

So, I rang Foundation Housing. Who were here to help. My call went straight to message bank. My second call was answered by Foundation Housing reception, who was, I'm sorry to say, about as useful as tits on a bull. And this was not the fault of the poor lass who was unlucky enough to take my call. She just didn't know anything. However, she did patch me through to the Allocation Supervisor. Who was unable to help a great deal as both his Allocation Officers were away sick.

The following morning I caught up with the Allocation Officer. She could not confirm or deny that Alex had received an Offer of Accommodation. Ye Gods. She was able to tell me that Alex had moved to thirty-fifth position on the Priority List. Which meant if those ahead of him had died, given up, become homeless or not changed their addresses, a place for Alex may become available reasonably soon. In the fullness of time. In the great scheme of things.

The upshot of all this frantic communication is that Alex has had to renew his private lease for another six months. Oh, and Homeswest have no record of  my filling out of The Form. Beautiful. Which means we will revisit this merry-go-round in April. Give me strength.

How to talk to government agencies...

Communication between government agencies...

How welfare recipients are viewed by the government...

Whom Homeswest doesn't communicate with...

And our fearless WA Premier promising more public housing. Yeah right.

ALL Systems Are GO.

For a variety of reasons, we have been unable to travel to our beloved Goldfields for over twelve months. Cold weather, medical appointments, a hospital admission and lack of money have all contributed to putting the kybosh on a great escape. Until now.

Nothing that much has actually changed. We remain chronically short of money, often playing what I refer to as "bills' roulette" (which outgoings can I pay this fortnight?).  Michael still has a lingering chest infection, the weather is chaotic and changeable and there is always the ongoing quest to have the House that Rocks and the East End Gallery baby-sat.

Yet we are going. Vicky is looking after our home and continuing her passionate affair with Pip the Jack Russell. Red the Pirate Parrot will ask her completely inappropriately to "give us a kiss", Sascha will totter around on her elderly legs and Ruby (now much better) has begun her appalling habits again. Even Madam Cat has a grudging affection for Miss Vicky, allowing herself to be stroked by the Interloper.

The awesome Lynn Isaacs, who doesn't think she is an artist (she is), will be looking after our beloved Gallery. She is currently lapping up the warmth and spectacle of the Goldfields, doing us a very large favour by finishing her holiday in order to open the Gallery for us.

Michael's vascular specialist has given him the All Clear, for a month at least. Then, regular ultrasounds will be the order of the day to keep an eye on Michael's troublesome arteries. In the meantime, we will enjoy the opportunity for daily walking, which both of us need to undertake to regain some vim, vigor, and vitality.

We did have a week off in July but that now seems a distant memory and certainly wasn't long enough to unwind. In fifteen minutes, I will be closing the Gallery, hurtling home and carrying on with the preparations. I have restocked and reorganised the food hamper, the utensils hamper, the linen, towels and odds and ends hamper, the snacks bag, the sleeping bags and pillows box and unearthed the washing up bowl, trusty kettle, and the camp oven. Our vast drug supplies and toiletries bag are sorted. I still have to pack our clothes, check the glove box, find our  hats and clean the esky. That will be the last item to place into the back of Kermit bright and early on Tuesday morning.

Michael's jobs include the Arrangement of both Kermit and the Trusty Trailer. We have decided to leave Roger the motorbike at home to make room for other items, such as additional rusty metal. We have our drinking water, vino, cool drinks and washing water all ready to be positioned. The gazebo, tent, stretcher bed, mattress, chairs, table , gas stove and cylinder have to be carefully and logically placed. Then our canvas cover goes over the top, with the vain hope that some of the Goldfields red dust will actually be kept at bay from our belongings.

And we are excited. Michael is so looking forward to turning Kermit eastwards. I am looking forward to doing nothing if I so choose (which is not my style). We are both looking forward to glorious Goldfields' dawns and sunsets. Not to mention the fossicking. And the freedom. But not the flies. does anybody like flies?

Tomorrow is Departure Day minus one. Roll on Tuesday.

Fossicking at Marvel Loch

At Sandstone

Karalee Rocks fire

Goldfields moon

The Fingers of God

Morning outside Kookynie

Another morning at Kookynie

Hair Traffic Control

Today was the first of two trips we are  making to the madness of the Big Smoke this week. Oh goody. In hindsight, we probably would not have completed all the allotted tasks we had set ourselves. Two activities were cast in stone. Michael has to see Kishore, his specialist for his post-operative check-up. We were also in urgent need of haircuts. Wanting to continue our hair-dressing love affairs with Gronia and Hannah at Salon Express, neither was available tomorrow when Michael's appointment with Kishore is scheduled. Bummer.

We decided that as we were driving to Midland for our appointments with our haircutters extraordinaire, we might as well cram in  fifty other excursions as well. Make a spectacle of ourselves. After haircuts. This morning I was resembling a startled porcupine and Michael had the distinct style of Grandpa Munster. After he brushed his hair, it was actually worse.

We had several difficulties leaving the House that Rocks. The first impediment was a sighting of the blundering Beagle, out near the main road, trotting along with her normal vacant expression. Michael performed a nifty U-turn, stopped the car and bellowed at the recalcitrant Beagle. Ruby completely ignored him and returned to her snuffling shuffle. So we drove home and I prevailed upon the escapee dog to return home. This she did by shimmying through two excavations, sauntering across our neighbour's paddock and entering our property with not a trace of guilt on her naughty little face. The good news was that Ruby was suitably weary and would snooze the afternoon away.

Then, we were informed that the electric water heater in the Residence was kaput and Gary was facing the awful reality of cold showers. We were required to contact the Electrician to the Stars, Ryan and his trade assistant Muddy to check out the situation and fix the problem if at all possible. Naturally, this had to be organised on the edge of town before we lost our mobile signal. Although we are only 130 kilometres from Perth, there is a giant Black Hole right smack in the middle of what should be full coverage. We tend to have better reception in the Goldfields!

Finally, we headed west. Arriving at Salon Express at the not early time of one o'clock, we received our ticket from Gronia, who was On Desk. We had an hour to kill before we were be rendered Presentable, so we set off for Midland-based activities. We bought dog mince and kangaroo tenders, extra medication for the Beagle, vino for our Goldfields trip, spare vacuum cleaner bags and organised OPEN signs for the East End Gallery. Having completed trips to all these venues, we hot footed Goldie and ourselves back to Salon Express.

The hairdressing premises presented a microcosm of the urban sprawl surrounding it. Clients were incoming and outgoing. People had to be parked whilst waiting. Then they were taxied to their chairs, awaiting take-off to Gorgeousness. And Tuesdays are discount Seniors Days. Which meant that the Salon was bulging at the seams with all those hoping to gain that New Look for the minimum price.

Hannah tackled Michael. Gronia sorted my look from startled porcupine to reasonably stylish short round woman. And whilst she was cutting, Gronia was directing and sorting and problem-solving. By the time we left, every member of staff at the salon had been sent on a lunch break. Except Gronia. As Hair Traffic Controller, she was in charge of the entire establishment and made sure that the day ran smoothly. From where I was sitting, she had all the skills of an extremely intellectual octopus.

Observation is a wonderful tool. Today, my view of the world allowed me to watch, in awe, of a remarkably gifted young woman. Gronia cut my hair well, as ever. Hannah returned Michael from Beverley Hillbilly to reasonably swish, distinguished semi-hobo. And Gronia demonstrated that she was able to keep her cool as Hair Traffic Controller in a very hectic period within the salon.

See you next time at Salon Express.

You know who...

Ryan, our Saviour today...

with trusty sidekick Muddy.

Michael's hairstyle this morning...

and mine...

After picture!

For Gronia.