My Parents I thought I might begin by introducing two of the star players in this story. They are my dearly departed parents, both born in the North of England in a tiny place called Radcliffe. My father, Andy, was a short stockily built man, rather large tummy at the time, with little bowed legs. At the time of the trip he would have been about 64 years old, he loved a beer and a smoke, both of which he would give up on his 65th birthday. I always thought had his legs been straight, he would have been a good six inches taller. He was an intelligent man, a hard worker, and possessed of that typical North of England sense of humour. He had been known in the past to tell jokes non-stop for an entire night, never repeating one, and the only noticeable difference being a slight slurring of speech as the beers went southward. He had fought and died three times during the Second World War, as a member of The Lancashire Fusiliers, hence when it came to our road trip, he personally thought we were on something of a Route march. My father was something of a nightmare passenger in a car, he was nervous because he never ever drove personally, and yet he always had his handy map on his knee. He had a sort of paranoia about driving through large towns and cities, and as a result would consult his map in a constant quest for alternative routes. I think had he been alive in the present day, he would have made an ideal voice over person for a personal GPS system. My little old mum, Annie, was also possessed of a wicked sense of humor. She surprised us all when at the age of 54 she announced she was having driving lessons. And further to our surprise, she got her license. In the UK we never had a car and travelled everywhere by bus, but here in this land of vast distances she decided she would also become mobile. My mum was only 4 foot two in her stocking feet, but always added on an extra half inch when asked about her height. She could only just reach the pedals in the various cars that she owned over the years, but this didn’t stop her at all. She was once pulled over by a policeman who claimed she was speeding. She was very indignant claiming it wasn’t possible for her to speed, and when asked why this was so, she said she couldn’t push the accelerator hard enough. Needless to say, she still got booked. The car they owned was an old Holden Kingswood. We always thought it was a bit too big for my mum as she always seemed to be struggling to see over the dashboard, but to her credit she got from A to B and managed to avoid most things blocking her way. I mentioned in the Prologue that I made the mistake of allowing my parents to head off alone and unsupervised to purchase a camper trailer. I should have realized that my dad would be persuaded otherwise, and I could imagine the salesman rubbing his hands together with anticipation. They came back with a large twenty foot long Millard Caravan; it admittedly was in very good order, but it really was way too big for their requirements. The Caravan The inside of the van was quite nice; the access door was at the front left hand side. As you entered the van on the left were two bunk beds, straight ahead was a bench-style table with seats either side. The table folded down and formed a double bed at nights. Directly opposite this was the kitchen consisting of stove, small fridge, a sink and small work bench. There were overhead cupboards all around for storage. Half way along the van was a sliding concertina door that separated the main bedroom from the rest of the van. Beyond this there was a wardrobe and a large double bed. The whole thing was quite nicely set out really, and the heating was via a small fan forced blow heater that sat on the floor. None of us had any previous caravan towing experience and were unaware that you could purchase attachments called Anti Sway Bars; I suppose it was a case of the old adage of What you don’t know can’t hurt you. There were no checks to see if the caravan was towing level. We purchased towing mirrors, the type that hook on to the front quarter panel of the car, and attach via a hook that sits between the car bonnet and the body, another two hooks attach to the top of the wheel arch, and the whole thing is stabilised with the use of stretchable octopus straps. The caravan was in as new condition, white with two lemon coloured stripes along the side. I believe the brand name was a Millard; we made all the necessary checks, made sure all the electrics were working, brakes, driving lights, indicators, brake fluid, and everything seemed to be in perfect working order. On the night we selected to start our trip, the caravan was hooked up to my car in the driveway, the plan was at around one o’clock in the morning, I would back the van out and hook it up to my parents car ready for the big trip (this was our first mistake). Our Cars We would be taking two separate cars. My parents car was an older style 1969 Holden HT Kingswood six cylinder automatic car. It was still in quite good nick, and was white in colour. The car Lynnie and I would be driving was only two years old, we had a 1976 Holden HX Station Wagon, this also had six cylinders, and was really more suited to towing a large van. It was also a manual geared car, and also all white in colour. Lynnie and I wanted to tow the van for the first section, thinking this would get us a good start on the trip, but my father was adamant that they would do the first tow. Now let’s not argue, after all it is their van and we really are just along for the ride. I had spending money, but my parents had generously offered to pay for our fuel. The year was 1978, our son Troy was just six months old, and this was going to be quite an adventure. It was now one o’ clock in the morning, and time for me to back the van out onto the street. Such a simple matter, nothing could go wrong (WRONG) – I hadn’t allowed for my father: unbeknown to us he had decided to do a pre-flight check. We were all set for our 7,058 kilometre drive; I jumped in the car and warmed up the engine. Everyone stood back as I attempted to back out of the driveway, I put the car in reverse and started letting out the clutch, I stalled the car, and once again repeated the process with the same result, something wasn’t quite right here. With just 7,058 kilometres to go I was having trouble with the first six inches; my clutch was starting to burn but I was going nowhere. I had all sorts of thoughts: my gear box can’t cope? the caravan wheels have seized? Nothing left for it but to get out and check everything. I finally located the problem: as my dad had gone around checking everything he had decided to put the caravan’s brakes on. I called my dad over and pointed out the problem, and his answer was he didn’t want the car and caravan to roll out into the street. Our little mishap out of the way, without further ado I managed to reverse the car out onto the street, I disconnected from our car, then reversed my parents car up to the van, and coupled it all up; at last the Lee family road trip was about to get underway. Melbourne to Ballarat At last we were finally on our way, just a short commute of about 140 kilometres to our first short stop at Ballarat. Under normal circumstances this drive would take approximately two hours if just driving a car. I had foolishly allowed around two and a half hours considering the caravan, and the fact my mum was towing a van for the first time etc. We made our way very very slowly down towards the Melbourne suburb of Maribyrnong; I couldn’t believe how slowly we were travelling. It would appear my father was already giving directions via his hand-held map, we passed the huge shopping centre called Hi-Point West, down to the end of the road then turned left, then left again. Within a matter of minutes we passed Hi-Point West once again, and then off we went again round to the left and left again. I couldn’t believe my eyes; my estimates for us arriving in Perth Western Australia were five solid days of driving, but at this rate it would take us three weeks. There was nothing for it, I signalled then shot around in front of them and waved to them to pull over. My father was quite flabbergasted and really didn’t know what all the fuss was about? I pointed to the huge shopping centre on our left and said do you know what that is? My father replied aye a bloody shopping centre. I said correct, but do you realize this is the third time we are passing it? My father was a little indignant about this, but in the end he agreed to my suggestion, that they follow Lynnie and I until we were on the Western Highway; at least once on this road it was a straight run to Ballarat. I guided them onto the appropriate road; I then allowed them to regain the lead. It was very frustrating; we were pottering along at about 70 kilometres per hour in a 100 kilometre an hour zone, on a couple of downhill sections we acquired speeds of up to 80 Kilometres. I moaned and groaned as we made our way at snail pace towards Ballarat. Lynnie, I think my parents are about to die . . . As we approached Ballarat the road turns into a proper three lane highway and it was here I truly thought we were about to lose my parents. The road went steeply downhill, my parents taking up the centre lane; they had now gone up past the 80 kilometre mark speed-wise. To our horror the caravan began to sway, slightly at first but then really swaying across three lanes. I flashed my lights and honked on my car horn but to no avail, they kept going. It truly was a terrifying thing to watch, rather than Western Australia I thought more along the lines of the nearest hospital via an emergency ambulance, actually hold that thought because yes we would finish up in hospital but for an entirely different thing. To add insult to injury, their driver’s side towing mirror fell off onto the road, and very shortly afterwards, their passenger side towing mirror fell off. Lynnie and I pulled over and picked these two items up fully expecting them to be smashed beyond repair, but amazingly they were both still intact. I don’t know how: perhaps God was watching over us, but they made the bottom of the hill and once the car was actually pulling again the van straightened up. I said to Lyn we need to unhook the van from their car, and attach it to ours before someone gets killed. And so as we entered the City of Ballarat I pulled in front of them, and signalled for them to follow me into a service station. Once safely stopped we walked over to my parents car. They were both quite pleased with the progress so far. I said what about the spot where you very nearly crashed? They both looked at me in bewilderment. Whatcheronabout my father replied, we never nearly crashed? Both Lyn and I tried to explain to them how the caravan was swaying back and forth across three lanes, surely they must have noticed the front of the car was weaving, but no, they hadn’t noticed. I walked over to my car and produced both of their wing mirrors, they looked at the mirrors, then back at me, then at their car, and then they proceeded to have the most amazing argument, my mother claiming that my father had failed to put the mirrors on the car in the first place. I assured them the mirrors had fallen off on the highway, and that we had to pull over to retrieve them both. All that remained now was to enter the van to see what was going on in there, and then hook the whole shebang onto the back of my car. As we entered the van it soon became horribly apparent where most of the problem lay. My father had insisted on loading up the caravan himself and it kept him occupied so no-one bothered to check on his progress. He had piled everything up on one side of the van, suitcases and food, and also he had filled up the very large water tank which was situated on the same side. We drained the tank and completely re-arranged the contents of the van, and all that remained now was to make a calming cuppa, fill up the fuel tanks and we could be (safely) on our way again. This was the plan, but our second major mishap (adventure) was about to take place. Lynne’s little adventure Things had settled down, I had transferred the caravan onto my car, and re-parked it in an appropriate spot. My little old mum put the kettle on, and we were all in the process of re-charging our somewhat frazzled egos. It was during this interlude that my six month old son Troy decided now would be a great time to fill his nappy with, for lack of a better word, a giant number two. Oh my gawd! In such a confined space it was hard to breath, but the two ladies set about changing his bottom. They used the table as a nappy changing area, the offending jobbie was removed from the premises, and all that remained was to clean Troy’s bot bot. To achieve this Lynnie produced a plastic container that contained nice smelling wipes. These things are called Wet Ones, they come in a circular plastic container, and the Wet Ones pull out individually via the plastic lid. In the centre of the lid is cut a sort of six point inverted star, a piece of the wet one sticks out of this star opening allowing you to grasp it between two fingers and pull the thing out. This should have all been straightforward, but somehow the next available Wet One was not sticking out of the lid. My little old mum was having a personal struggle trying to grab hold of one of these paper wipes, and in doing so got the tip of her index finger stuck in the opening. She didn’t half carry on in her lovely Lancashire accent, but with much ado she managed to retract her finger tip. You would think the rule of thumb, or finger as the case may be, would be once bitten twice shy. But no, enter Lynnie saying here let me do that, and what did she do? She stuck her entire finger into the inverted star right past the main knuckle. The container and Lynnie were now as one, and now Lynnie was in considerable pain. We all had a bit of a giggle at the predicament, but as the minutes passed her finger was getting more and more painful. The more that we tried to remove the lid, the more the star points dug into her flesh. The obvious way to fix a problem like this, should it occur again, is to simply remove the entire lid, and poke the tip of the Wet One through with the handle end of a fork or spoon. Hindsight is a great thing, however now we were stuck with a perplexing problem. I managed to get the lid off the main container, and then we trudged somewhat red-faced into the service station. The owner produced a pair of side-cutter pliers, but the more we handled Lyn’s finger the more severe the problem became. Ballarat Base Hospital It was now around 4:30 am in the morning; we trudged into the Casualty Department of Ballarat Base Hospital. We were greeted at the reception by a very bleary-eyed Triage nurse. He didn’t seem at all happy to be receiving customers at this ungodly hour. He asked in a very bored sort of way what is the problem, and with this Lynnie stuck her finger under his nose saying I’ve got a Wet-One stuck on me finger. On seeing this, the male nurse burst into laughter, and proceeded to call over anyone within earshot to come take a look. Lyn was taken into Casualty and was seen by the doctor, he immediately realized her finger was in the process of dying, it had turned a terrible whitish colour below the offending plastic lid. He immediately took her into the Casualty Operating theatre, and with the help of a local anaesthetic he managed to cut the offending item off. Poor Lynnie suffered from chronic pins and needles for days after this incident, but needless to say, she never pushed her finger in a Wet One’s lid ever again. We set off for far away Adelaide From Melbourne to Adelaide is quite a long drive, 726 kilometres to be precise, and as we had only managed a measly 140 kilometres so far, it was obvious we needed to press on. Lynnie and I now took the lead, with the caravan firmly attached to our car. It seemed our vehicle could handle the load much better, and we started to make good progress. I could have easily sat on 100 kilometres per hour, but settled for about 95 kilometres per hour to ease my father’s nervous disposition. We had pre-arranged that we would stop about every two hours and set up a little table and chairs and have a cup of tea and perhaps a sandwich or a cake. These were good times and lots of laughs were had, and of course we wouldn’t be English if we didn’t stop for our cuppas. It also gave us time to feed Troy and change his bottom without further incident. We continued our sojourn through lots of country towns, places like Ararat, Horsham, and Nhill. We had a bit of an incident in Nhill: as we were approaching Nhill a car loaded with young blokes was tail-gating my parents, and unbeknown to me my father had wound down his window and given them the bird. This caused all sorts of drama with these hoodlums driving in front of us then hitting their brakes, then they would allow us to overtake and they would then harass my parents. Fortunately our luck held and a police car drove up behind us, the local louts soon turned off the highway, and we decided our next tea stop would be somewhat further on down the road. Ever westward we drove, things were going quite smoothly now, and we planned to stay in a caravan park in Adelaide on that first night. We crossed the border into South Australia going through the townships of Keith, Tintinara, Coonalpyn, Tailem Bend, and stopping for a break at Murray Bridge. It was here that both my father and my wife needed to pee so they both hiked off into the bush at the side of the road. Behind the thick bush was a paddock full of cows, and as Lynnie was doing her thing, she decided to talk to the on-looking audience. I will never forget my father’s words as he returned to the van. I said where’s Lyn, is she alright? to which he replied she’s bloody mooing. Our trip was full of fun, my dear old parents were very funny people indeed, there always seemed to be lots to laugh about. We pressed on passing through a lovely old German town called Hahndorf, then Stirling, and it was somewhere around here that things went a bit pear-shaped. Scuse me Dad, but we appear to have lost the ladies At our last tea break we had decided on a bit of a change, my father decided he would like to ride with me because I was in the leading vehicle and he wasn’t getting any use out of his trusty map in the second car. Lynnie would hop in with my mum and take turns driving with her for a while. We wound our way all through the Adelaide Hills; I kept glancing in my mirrors but could not see the women anywhere. I mentioned this to my father but he didn’t seem concerned. I decided at the bottom of the Adelaide Hills I would park off to the side and wait. This was well before the days of mobile phones of any kind; all we could do was wait, and wait we did for about an hour and a half. I was getting really concerned by this point fearing the worst. My father came up with the ridiculous suggestion that we proceed to the other side of Adelaide and it took some persuading that if we moved from our present position chances are we would never see the ladies again. Meanwhile, in the ladies car, pandemonium and panic had broken out: my mother was driving in the left lane of a three lane highway. All of a sudden Lyn yelled out Adelaide left, my mother executed a somewhat manic turn to the left, and off they went via an off ramp. They drove down this road obviously for quite some distance before finally realizing they had made a mistake. They then backtracked the way they had come, turning back onto the highway, but they had turned onto the highway back towards Melbourne. I have no idea how far they went before they realized they were now heading east instead of west. Finally the penny must have dropped and they managed to turn themselves back in the right direction, then déjà vu, the whole thing happened again, Lynnie once again yelled out Adelaide left, and off they went again, roughly an hour and a half later they finally appeared coming down the hill. I quickly waved them down and listened to their tale of woe, and looking at the map the only word I could find that had even a slight resemblance to Adelaide was Aldgate, so my guess is Lyn had mistaken this exit sign as Adelaide and so off they went time and again. We then swapped our partners back to their rightful vehicles after having a calming cup of tea, then we turned onto Port Rush Road following my father’s instructions on how to by-pass Adelaide city. Our first camp site in Adelaide We finally located a nice caravan park on the Western side of Adelaide; we negotiated the fee and parked the van for the night. We levelled the van, plugged in the power and settled down for a nice meal. I was thinking well this has been a long and eventful day, maybe now we can relax, have a few drinks and perhaps a game of cards, but Lyn had other ideas. She thought now would be a great time to visit her Aunty and Uncle who lived in Adelaide. I must admit I really wasn’t keen, but Lynnie insisted. When I asked what the address was, the answer I received left me bloody flabbergasted. Lyn said I don’t know the name of the street or the suburb, but there’s a tree in the street. This was amazing: Adelaide’s a big place, and a tree in the street hardly gives one something to go on. But she insisted that Port Rush Road looked familiar and she thought if we were to retrace our steps, and look up the streets on the left that she would recognize her relative’s street. I was beyond arguing the toss and thought what the heck, I will just humor her. We drove along for quite a while with me starting to get a little sarcastic to say the least, when all of a sudden she yelled out that’s it. I turned around and drove into the street as directed, and bugger me; it did have a tree in it. But the weird thing was the tree was not on the side of the street, it was a full grown gum tree right smack in the centre of the street, no garden beds around it, no fences just a giant tree right in the middle of the road. Lyn’s auntie’s place was just a little further up on the left hand side. We enjoyed a pleasant night with Lyn’s relatives then headed back to the caravan (with me still scratching my head in bewilderment). The bed incident Our sleeping arrangements were as follows: my parents would have the lovely comfortable double bed, whilst Lynnie and I would have the double bed that could be made up by collapsing the legs on the dining table. This then dropped down and suspended between the two bench seats, and the seat cushions then formed a double mattress. This wasn’t as bad as it sounds and the bed was quite comfortable and quite easy to set up. That first night went without incident, that is until my father’s army training came to the fore. My dad Andy never ever got out of the habit of rising at 4 a.m., his years in the Second World War had conditioned him, and the fact we were on holiday never really entered the equation. To his credit my father was an excellent cook, and his intentions that second morning was honourable to say the least: his intention was to make us all a cooked breakfast, then we would all be full and satisfied and ready for the day’s route march, but, good intentions or not, it certainly didn’t all go to plan. Lynnie and I were still sound asleep, my father was short and rotund, and unfortunately the plates he needed for our breakfast were beyond his reach in overhead cupboards above our sleeping heads. This didn’t perturb him in the least, he stood on the side of our bed in the middle, grabbed four plates, and it was then that all hell broke loose. Our bed snapped in half with an almighty CRACK, plunging Lynnie and I into the gap between the seats, my father came crashing down on top of us, there was yelling and screaming and crockery breaking all over the shop. We were all in a tangle of arms and legs, Troy had been woken during the melee and was bellowing at the top of his lungs, and meanwhile my mum was calling out eee bloody eck, what’s going on? It took quite a few minutes for everything to settle down, we untangled ourselves from the mess, and my dad was muttering something unintelligible as he carried on making breakfast. Troy was pacified with a nice warm bottle of baby’s milk, meanwhile we disassembled the broken bed cum-dining table, packed away all the bedding, and made me mum a cuppa. Well that was an interesting start to the day, I don’t think. It wasn’t the greatest start to the second day, but boy have we laughed about this when we reminisce. The upshot of all this was my father blamed us for breaking the bed! We now struck a deal with the olds: one night they would have the good double bed, and Lyn and I would use the bunks, and the next night we would swap and Lynnie and I would get the double bed, but somehow this deal never ever happened and we were condemned to sleep in the narrow bunks for the rest of the trip. Adelaide to Ceduna We set off bright and early in our quest west, our next overnight stay would be in the township of Ceduna. Ceduna is situated right at the top end of The Spencer gulf 740 kilometres north of Adelaide, and we had now decided on trips of between six and seven hundred kilometre drives which would allow us to arrive at our destination with plenty of time to find the caravan park, and set up at our leisure. It had been decided at some point that Lynnie and I would tow the van for the whole trip, with one exception. We had discussed the idea that once we had reached Norseman in Western Australia, Lynnie and I would go on ahead and let mum and dad tow the van into Perth. The idea was we would go on ahead, organize a nice van site near the beach, and then meet our parents at a relative’s house and from there we would guide them to the caravan park. However this was a little further down the track, and turned into a little adventure my parents never forgot. But back to the present and our Northwood push continued. The drive from Adelaide to Ceduna is mainly through open grazing country; all sorts of crops can be seen growing. To the left of us was the Spencer Gulf and this became visible as we approached Port Augusta. Our routine was working quite well now, two hours driving, then a break in a truck stop for a rejuvenating cuppa and a sandwich. Troy was a very well behaved and satisfied baby and provided no problems whatsoever, well with the exception of his regular nappy gifts. We went through numerous outback towns; one that springs to mind is Iron Knob, and this place is obviously named after the iron ore which is mined there. It’s funny how this name would spring to mind later in my life. When I turned 40 I was diagnosed with a hereditary disease called Hemochromatosis which is a gene defect that causes the body to produce too much Iron, and the only medical treatment is to have half a litre of blood removed from my body every three months for the rest of my life. I have received much flak from my work mates and family over the years. For instance it was suggested by my brother that I have inscribed on my tomb-stone RUST IN PEACE. Another time I was working in Brisbane building the new hospital there. I needed to go to the toilet and as I sat on the loo my nailbag tipped, emptying loads of screws onto the tile floor, it made quite a noise and lo and behold one of my workmates was in the next cubicle. He took great pleasure in calling out, is that you John? Other suggestion was youd better stay away from Magnetic Island and even my doctor, when he diagnosed the condition, couldn’t help himself. He was a dour sort of chap, not normally one to crack jokes, but when I asked about my Iron levels, he quipped as he walked out the door, most people produce enough iron to make a pin head, and you could run a nail gun. I must admit this stuff really tickles my fancy, and hence Iron Knob would raise its ugly head on many occasions, so to speak. However back on the road we passed through Kimba, Wuddinga, Minnipa, Poochera, and various other small places, finally arriving at Ceduna in the afternoon. All of these names are Aboriginal names and have aboriginal meanings. We set up the van in the caravan park, and then decided to drive down to the foreshore. We decided we would have a stroll out onto the local jetty. Its a lovely looking place, the Spencer Gulf is a lovely deep blue here, and oh how I wished I had taken my fishing rod along. Whilst we were standing on the Jetty a fight broke out amongst a group of Aboriginals who were sitting on the grass opposite the foreshore, but it was getting quite nasty so we decided best to go back to the caravan. Oh! My gawd, I think I’m going to be sick We had lots of fun and laughter; in the early evening we would cook tea, and then settle down for a game of cards. My father loved his beer, I also enjoyed a drink at this time in my life, but once I was diagnosed with the iron disease I had to stop, the iron is very toxic to ones liver, and so it was in my best interest to give the booze away. But that was still to come and at this time in life I enjoyed a beer. So once the meal was cooked and eaten, the dishes done and stacked away, we would sit and chat and laugh and play cards or just talk, and get quite merry. On the morning that we were due to leave Ceduna it was freezing cold but my father was up at four a.m. cooking up a storm. As I mentioned earlier our heating in the van was provided by a small blow heater that sat on the floor. This heater had vents on the top to draw air into the heater, below this vent was a high speed fan, and this blew warm air out of the front. Why so much detail about a heater? Bear with me and I will explain. Our breakfast was consumed with great gusto; it usually consisted of bacon and eggs, sausages, fried tomatoes and toast, and once we had eaten we would clean everything away, tend to our son Troy’s needs then hook up the caravan and away. This particular morning however, Lynnie was away having a shower, my mother was doing something near the sink, and I hadn’t really looked at what she was up to. It was then that it happened, she turned holding something, and a large cake of what I presumed was green fairy soap flew out of whatever she was holding. This cake of soap landed on the vents of the blow heater, I immediately bent down to pick it up saying oh Mum, you’ve dropped the soap, and with this I grabbed it, and it squelched between my fingers, falling through the heater vent and onto the rapidly rotating fan. Here it was chopped into fine pieces and shot out all over our lower legs and the cupboards. And then the smell followed, it was not green fairy soap, it was a giant green jobbie that Troy had produced, my mum was changing Troy’s bum, and as she turned with the soiled nappy, the lethal green missile was launched. I spent many minutes outside retching my stomach contents onto the ground; meanwhile my mother busied herself cleaning the floor heater and cupboards. Oh what a bloody nightmare, the shit really had hit the fan. I don’t know if this type of thing is peculiar to the Lee family, or if all folks have these types of troubles . . . Incident resolved, the van was hooked up and we now started heading west. Our next destination point was out on the Nullarbor Plain at a little stop called Mundrabilla, approximately 563 kilometres away; this would be a shorter drive today. We headed off bright and early, passing through the small town of Penong, and from here on in it was due west across the vast Nullarbor Plain; this name means place of no trees and that pretty well sums it up, mile upon mile of vast open plains, only small shrubs and red soil, the road disappears into a heat haze as far as the eye can see. It really is an eye opener for anyone contemplating this trip. I had been across here in the past by car, the first time I did it there was still 375 kilometres of dirt road, back then it was a real adventure to make this drive because you never really know if you were going to make it to the other end, but now it was a lovely sealed road all the way to Perth. I think that because we were towing a caravan the sealed road was a blessing in disguise. Somewhere along this stretch my car started playing up, it was sounding more like a Volkswagen than a six cylinder car, and it was in serious need of mechanical help. We managed to make it to the Nullarbor Homestead – this is a large roadhouse in the middle of nowhere, and we had to wait ages for the resident mechanic to finally drag himself over to our car. I started it up, and he immediately diagnosed that we had blown a manifold gasket. Our luck was in, he had a spare, and many hours later and lots of money less we were able to proceed on our way. The rest of the day went without drama; we passed Border Village, Eucla, and finally made our way to our stop at Mundrabilla. Mundrabilla is basically a motel with bar, and petrol service station. We found a spot and parked the van, then went through the daily routine of preparing tea, and settling down for the night. Lynnie, is that an earthquake? I feel a little nauseated recalling this part of our road trip, but unfortunately it was a part of the day-to-day unexpected happenings. Almost every night we would finish tea, then wash and dry the dishes, Troy would be snuggled off to bed then we would get comfortable and either just chat or play cards. Every night was the same thing, my father would always drink long necks of Melbourne bitter straight out of the bottle, and he would drink maybe three to four a night. I personally could manage about two and that would be my lot, I would be well and truly merry. I will never forget the Mundrabilla night as long as I live: all the routine stuff was out of the way and Troy was asleep, so I asked my father if he would like a beer. To my shock horror he replied no thanks. I think we all asked if he was feeling ok but he insisted he was fine. I drank my usual two bottles, and was a bit perplexed as to what was wrong with my father. We all stayed up till around 11 p.m. then bade one another goodnight and all went off to bed. I was in the top bunk with Lynnie down below when all of a sudden the caravan began to rock, and I wondered what the hell was going on, and peered over the side to see Lynnie laughing her head off. Then it dawned on me: the relics were making love. Oh shit! Surely they must have realized we were in a caravan and it was the equivalent to being in a rowing boat on rough water. Lynnie and I were trying to stifle our laughter and managed to ride out the storm. In the morning my mum walked in bold as brass in her dressing gown, and said to us you two are immoral, you were jogging last night – this was her way of saying making love. I said you have to be joking, Lynnie and I had to hold on to the sides of the bunks to keep from falling out, and Troy had to be strapped down in his baby basket. It never ceased to amaze me over the years some of the conversations we heard my parents having whilst we would be eating tea. One thing springs to mind and it stopped both Lynnie and I mid forkful. I cannot mention it here, it wouldn’t be appropriate; perhaps I shall tell you another time. One thing was for sure, I made sure my father had his regulation bottles of beer for the rest of the trip. Mundrabilla to Norseman Once again breakfast was made and eaten, we all showered and spruced ourselves up in the motel, then we headed back onto the highway, our destination Norseman a mere 635 kilometres away. The drive across the Nullarbor is quite boring; at one point there is 90 miles in the old scale of dead straight road, the road rises and falls as far as the eye can see, and as the day wears on a shimmering heat haze makes like a watery mirage. The only animals to be seen are the occasional dead kangaroo, and large wedge-tailed eagles feasting on the rotting carcasses. Late in the afternoon a car flew past us, we were sitting on 100 kilometres an hour now and the car that past us made us feel like we were standing still. Miles away in the distance was a slight hill, there was a car making its way up this hill. We saw the car that had passed us shoot past the first car, and then all we saw was a large puff of dust. It took us ten minutes to arrive at the scene, and what we saw gave us a bit of a fright. The second car had shot past the first one, and then quickly zoomed back onto our side of the road; he must have hit the dust on the verge of the road, because here he lost control at speed. He became airborne over the batter created by road graders and landed some twenty feet sideways in the bush. All four tires were pushed off their rims, and the car was buried up to its body in soft sand. The young couple on board was in shock when we pulled up to offer them a cup of tea, whilst the other people checked them for injuries. The young lady from the crashed car seemed quite happy all things considered. She told us she had jarred her neck in a crash years ago and as a result always suffered from a painful neck, the jolt of this latest crash seemed to have freed it up somehow and the pain had gone (how peculiar). We were hundreds of kilometres away from any help, but a strange thing happened. A car of the same make as the crashed car turned up, in it was a family from Western Australia heading over to the East for a holiday. This chap had four spare tires and rims, and offered them to the crash victims to help them on their way. They exchanged names and addresses, and the young couple made an agreement that they would drop the tires and rims off when they reached Perth. Isn’t that a nice story – these days the people pulling up to help would be more likely to run off with your luggage? Without further ado we continued on our journey to Norseman, we continued on for perhaps 50 kilometres past Norseman, then finally feeling rather tired we pulled into a truck stop. This was our first night roughing it so to speak, no power to be had, we had parked quite a long way off the road, and our lighting on this night consisted of candlelight. It was a fun- filled night, with the regulation bottles of beer consumed. My mum was funny this night, she kept on about us being attacked by Zulus. I said perhaps Aborigines, but she insisted it would be Zulus, ha ha. As soon as we pulled up at the truck stop, I immediately unhitched the caravan from our car, I then hooked it onto the back of my parents car; it had been suggested the day before that once we had reached Norseman, Lynnie and I would forge on ahead in our car. We would find a suitable caravan park on the beach in the north of Perth, and then meet my parents at my cousin’s place, and from here we would guide them to the van site. Norseman to Perth The day started as per normal, we all had a wash and breakfast, then washed and cleaned the dishes and then it was time for Lynnie, Troy and I to depart. We were a bit dubious about the whole idea considering my mother had only had the short amount of towing experience, but they assured us they were perfectly alright, and would see us in Perth later that night. It really was quite a long drive for that last leg, 799 kilometres to be precise. We left them bright and early to have their own personal little adventure. And an adventure they did have. After we left them my mum and dad pottered on ever westward. It must have been a very long harrowing day for my poor old mum, because my father would be eagerly sitting with his map poised keeping her informed of every guide post along the way. To her credit she made it all the way to Perth, but not without incident. As you approach the suburbs of Perth you wind down through the hills, but once into the suburbs it becomes quite busy. Unfortunately as my parents arrived at this point it was absolutely bucketing down with rain. As I have mentioned earlier my little old mum had trouble seeing over the dashboard, and with all the traffic and rain it must have been quite frightening. My father was looking for alternatives on his map, but at this point there is no choice but to stay in the traffic. My mum panicked and yelled where do I go now Andy? to which he replied follow that bus and so she did, straight into the bus station, she got herself sort of blocked in, and prevented all the buses from entering or leaving, and by this point they were both in a real flap. Fortunately for them a bus driver came to their rescue, and backed the car and van back onto the highway. I would love to have been there with one of our modern video cameras. But no harm was done and very late in the afternoon they arrived at my cousin’s place. Once there my cousins decided it would be far nicer if my parents would park the van in their driveway, this seemed to suit everyone, but I think the idea of being closer to the beach would have proved better. Lynnie and I were going to stay with good friends of mine; I had lived over in Perth two years prior and knew quite a lot of people over there. It was great catching up as my friends had a little baby about the same age as Troy. We spent two whole weeks in the West, went and saw all the sights, Rottnest Island, the City, London Court, and off course you cannot visit Perth without walking around Kings Park. This park is a massive nature park sitting atop a hill, it provides panoramic views of the Swan River and the City, and in fact it is right on the very edge of the city. When I lived in Perth I worked as a Storeman in Hay Street at a place called Ramsay Surgical which provided surgical instruments for hospitals and doctors surgeries. It was a very short walk from where I worked to Kings Park, and most days I would walk across and have lunch there whilst admiring the views. Time to go home We had spent two full weeks in the West and now the time had come to rejoin my parents and head back home to Melbourne. We hooked the van back onto our car and bade farewell to our relatives. The trip back went far more smoothly, with only one mishap. It is such a long way, and gives one an appreciation of how vast this country really is. The return trip went pretty much the way of the first half of the journey; we would travel between five to six hundred kilometres then pull up for the night. Fortunately my dad drank his quota of beer every night, and so there was no replay of the earth tremor we endured earlier. Lynnie, let’s play a trick on the olds The trip was getting a bit tiresome by this stage; we had entered the long straight on the Nullarbor that stretches for ninety miles without a single bend. The monotony was getting to me that is until I came up with a silly idea. My idea was to increase speed and leave my parents in our wake, there was no possibility of losing them completely, as there was no turn-offs to be found on this stretch of road. I put the foot down then sped on ahead, and once my parent’s car was completely out of sight I started looking for a truck stop that I could pull in to. I finally found one and pulled off the road, they couldn’t possibly miss us as there was nothing for miles and miles, and no other vehicles in the parking area. As soon as I stopped the car I filled Lynnie in on my silly plan, the idea was we would get into the caravan, hop on the double bed, and then when my parent’s car came into view we would jump up and down on the bed to see what they would do. Sure enough their car pulled in behind the van, they both got out, and I heard my mother proclaim in a loud and happy voice, Bloody ell Andy, the buggers are jogging. This was bad enough but, not satisfied with that, they tried to peer in at the windows, and finding no satisfaction there they came traipsing into the van. Lynnie and I were in hysterics, my parents were two bloody old perverts ha ha. After this little incident it was decided to set up the table and chairs and have a nice cup of tea, and something to eat. We part company We had now driven back across the South Australian border and had arrived back at Ceduna . It was here my father put a proposition to us: he said what about you two take the van, and Annie and I will just potter along and stop in motels for the rest of the trip? Lynnie and I were not overly keen on the idea, but agreed anyway. At 4 a.m. the following morning my parents followed the standard routine of wash dress and breakfast in that order, then they bade us farewell. The strange part is we didn’t see hide nor hair of them after this, so just where they got to we never did find out. That same day, Lynnie and I slept in till about 9 a.m., and then set off at a slower leisurely pace, there was no need to drive the entire day as we had been doing previously. We did have one major mishap though. Oh! Shit is that all there is? When Lynnie and I left Ceduna we had three quarters of a tank of petrol. I studied the map to see where the next service station was and spotted a little town well within our petrol reserves. By the time we reached this town I was on empty, so imagine my shock and horror when we arrived at the place marked on the map only to find it consisted of a large wheat silo and a railway siding. My comment was Oh! Shit, is that all there is? It was hundreds of kilometres back to Ceduna, but a much shorter distance to the next place, so we had no choice but to press on and hope for the best. A short time later we ran out of petrol, oh! Dear what to do? I had an empty jerry can in the back of the car so I told Lyn to get in the van with Troy and lock the door, and I would hitch hike to the nearest town and get back as soon as possible. I had no sooner stepped out of the van and stuck out my thumb, when a car pulled up and offered me a lift. Gee perhaps our luck was changing, or maybe not? The couple that picked me up where in their sixties, they were on their honeymoon and heading from Perth to Sydney. Now I don’t wish to seem ungrateful but the guy driving was sitting on one hundred miles an hour, not kilometres. That was bad enough but what was putting the wind up me was the fact that both of them were drinking can after can of beer, they were both legless really. They offered me beer but I was too busy hanging onto the door handle. Well, they dropped me off at the next service centre and I gladly got rather shakily out of their car. I take it they made their destination because I never heard of any fatalities that week. I filled my jerry can in the servo then walked back out to the highway and my luck held; a family in a four wheel drive picked me up straight away. I sat in the back with the full Jerry can on my knee; there was nowhere else for me to put the can because their car was loaded up to the gills. It turned out this family were moving their entire engineering business from Adelaide to Perth, and following them was a large truck with all their business gear on board. We finally arrived back at the caravan, and Lynnie and Troy were still safe thank goodness. I thanked the people for their hospitality and offered to pay for my passage but they were having none of it, lovely people – such a difference to today – in this day and age I would have more likely been mugged and had my petrol stolen. Home sweet home We finally arrived back at my parents’ house; they had enjoyed the rest of their trip stopping at motels, and who knows if my dad gave up his beer on those nights. Oooh! Stop it, I can’t bear the thought. The caravan was parked, and strangely enough it was never used again, my parents sold it to my cousin Ann and her husband Neville who live in the seaside town of Warrnambool and they kept the van for thirty odd years. I recall Lynnie and I calling at their house one day many many years later and seeing the old van sitting out the back of their place. It was still in really good condition, and brought lots of fond memories’ flooding back. Well this is the end of the Lee family road trip; I hope you have had as much pleasure reading about it, as we did taking part. THE END
Posted on: Wed, 19 Mar 2014 10:38:20 +0000
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